I am quite uneasy; be still my nerves.  An unknown nagging feeling keeps jabbing at the back of my mind, worrying me, filling me with concern and disrupting my thoughts.  

I am supposed to write something for Therapist, but I don’t know if I have an accurate topic.  Something about finding a reason to give up cutting and restricting.  

I suppose this is in response to the fact that I’ve been cutting and joined a weight loss program that I am taking a little too far.

So I guess the question is why keep going back to old patterns that “don’t serve me well.”  

My response then questions why should I let go of “old patterns” such as cutting and restriction when they keep me safe.  Perhaps I am the fool or just engage in foolish behavior.  I own both.  But why give any self destructive behavior up when they serve the purpose of protecting us.  

All I know is engaging in behaviors keeps me child-like, needy, requiring others to take care of us, make us safe, safe, safe.  It’s selfish, I know.  It’s almost manipulative to carry on hurting onself so others will be obligated to handle our life.  

For me, there is no safety.  I do not feel safe.  There have been brief moments of feeling almost, kind of safe with Therapist.  It doesn’t get lost on me that my long-term therapeutic relationships have been with men.  It’s also not lost on me, though highly ironic, that I was engaged to an abusive man with whom I felt safe.  

I’ve spent all of my life searching for safe places, from real and perceived monsters.  Searching for safe places for my minds.  What one part thinks is safe another doesn’t.  

So I just cut.  It feels good.  It’s not a desperate plea for others to notice, although we hope they do.  If others learn what we are doing, maybe they will save us from ourselves.

See, we’ve been on a weight-loss program, but we’ve taken it too far.  There are ways to get around recording what you’re eating.  And in addition, the calorie/point range is too low.  How do we know?  Dizzy spells.  Dizzy when standing.  Fatigue.  But we take our Adderall, get busy, skip lunch, and enjoy the thrill of winning that day.  And when we don’t win, we take a razor to our skin because that somehow makes it okay that we effed up our food that day.  And we keep it a secret until we can no longer stand it, and we hope someone will rescue us from ourselves.  Make it safe.  Make it safe.  Make it safe.

And we are carted off to recovery facilities where they check appendages and other self-harm canvases, weigh us, check our vitals, and save us from ourselves.  But no more.  I will never go to another facility only to get a patch job.  

So what now?  How does one feel safe?  Does one ever feel safe?  When is it enough: to be safe from others or safe from ourselves?  Are those two even possible?

Secure, safe, protected, shielded, guarded, loved.  I don’t know those words or connotations.

I don’t think I’ve ever felt loved in my life.  Never felt safe.  Never felt protected.

And when I hurt myself by cutting or restricting, that’s me saying, “I love you, and I will make sure you are safe and will be protected/looked after.”

And now that I’ve just made myself cry, I’m going to go make myself feel safe, loved, and protected.