I truly believe my classes are killing me. This is one of the worse weekends I’ve had in ages. We are to write about three memories we have. Holy Hell! Give me a break. And we have to write before we write. I did everything I was asked. I did a continuum map. I journaled about what I might write about. Next, I actually have to write it. And it has to be a word photo, meaning it must be like a photo in that we have 75-100 words to paint a picture of what we are trying to say. Our words must be very succinct and economical and not wasteful at all. I think I’ve decided on the three on which I will write, but one is about cutting, my first experience with it, and I don’t know if I want to share that with the class. As the weather gets warmer and I wear shorter sleeves, it will be obvious that something has happened to me. My body is totally scarred from cutting. There are very few places I don’t have a scar. If I wanted a tattoo, and ME does, I don’t we can do it because unless it’s on the ankle or on the vagina, they’ll have to tattoo a scar.
The last two writings I’ve done were somewhat personal and I don’t want to always go in there with a sob story. Pretty soon, people will start to tune out what I have to say and I really, really need to remember that it’s not the story that makes it interesting it’s the writer. I don’t want to say what I will write my other two word photos on, but they are not near as personal. The last thing, well, next to the last thing I want to say about cutting, is that the people I’m in class with might have to deal with this with their students and it might give them a better perspective as to what goes through the mind of someone who cuts. So far, we haven’t had discussion time after the feather circles so no one has really asked any one else about their writing. I don’t know what made me think of that. In any case, I can see some positives about writing about it and some negatives. I just don’t want to be labeled the “troubled” student who only knows how to write tragedy. They already made snide comments that hacked me about how it is so much easier to write tragedy than comedy; that was directed at me. I would like to know how it’s easier. Is that on a f’ing personal level, or a technical level? Either way, got to hell.
Since I’m on the topic of cutting…. although I didn’t decide to write about it tonight, yesterday I cut. I cut pretty good considering how long I’ve restrained myself and gone so long without cutting and when and if I did cut it wouldn’t be so much. but the anxiety between yesterday and today has gripped me pretty good and nothing would alleviate it. It started after one of my writing pieces. Hungry feels good,not the writing piece. I’m starting to go over the whole place.
Focus. I wrote. I got anxious. I’ve been taking the meds more dutifully that the Shrink has prescribed so I can’t blame it on that. I decided to take a tranq; I mean I was f’ing going out of my head like it was nobody’s business. I was ramming my head in the wall, I was pacing back and forth. I couldn’t stop. Finally, it seemed to settle down…for all of maybe fifteen minutes. I waited for the tranq to kick in. I just didn’t do any damn good. I took another one, which I’m allowed. I can take two at once or close together if I wish. A couple hours later, after bawling my eyes out, I had to cut. D. wasn’t here; I was alone. I found my trusty, rusted out single edge razor blade; rusty so I might get sicker if I use it. It’s never clean which adds to the self-destruction. Hopefully I’ll get some kind of disease or illness, be hospitalized, and die.
That didn’t happen, but I ripped that razor blade through me a dozen times; I counted. I start of slow. Careful slices at first, and then get meaner and meaner and more daring and more daring. When I was finished on number 12, I had a mean looking slash going straight across the vein that pops out. Something makes me feel like I’ve written about this already. High probability since we don’t read over our blogs; too dangerous.
The short of it is it’s addictive. After overdosing on every downer I had around the house, D. taking me out and trying to avert my attention to something else, I finally came home and took more and finally got knocked out. My ass woke up at 3:30 anxious as hell and so I took another tranq and fell asleep sometime after 4:30. My stomach was sick when I woke up; I’m guessing it was all the meds. The anxiety continued today. I didn’t want to take more meds. It didn’t work yesterday. Why waste them today? I just banged my head against the wall, shook my foot till I strained a ligament, and ripped out patches of my hair. I did break down this afternoon and took one tranq. THAT seemed to help. What helped mostly is cutting again. I cut in a different place and didn’t tell D. this time. I told his yesterday b/c he knew how anxious I was and so I decided to tell him. He watched me closely for a while. Soon as he stopped, I cut. It just f’ing feels better. Later comes the shame and “why did I do that” but I didn’t care and I didn’t’ want to follow it through. Just writing about it makes me want to take that blade and slice it so deep, so hard, so flesh splitting that it is hard not to. I want to bad.
I’ve been mostly better ever since the tranq this afternoon. It got so bad this morning that I thought I would call Randy or the S.S.Shrink because I just couldn’t stand it anymore. I thought I was going crazy as hell or would go crazy from trying to stave off craziness. I can breath right now and even feel tired. Didn’t work out. Sounds stupid and counterproductive but I was too anxious to go exercise. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t sit still in the car long enough to drive to the gym. Perhaps I could jog around the neighborhood. Didn’t think of that. But how could I? I was just waiting on the next breath to come.
So I have so much homework that I didn’t get to I will be in serious trouble. Thank goodness for my accommodations. I better stop now. I’m swear I’m getting anxious just writing about it. Something has to give. I mean NOW!!!!! God, I need major, major help. The blade is calling. Dare I answer the phone?