Till now. I don't know if it counts, I didn't puncture the skin. It didn't bleed. They're just puffy scratches. But you know what's terrible? I'm proud of myself for doing it. And I have no idea why. My world is so much different than when I used to cut. Some would say it's better, but it's so much more confusing for me. I have a social life, I have a few friends. But I'm not sure I want them anymore. I don't know if I can handle it.

All I want to do is see blood, which is sick. The scratches aren't enough. I just want to feel like I used to when I cut. So relieved. I want people to love me, I want them to care. I know there are some people that do. But there's one person that doesn't, and that's the person I want to care the most.

I just want to be happy, not the depressed girl. I want to go back to school so I can talk about this stuff in group (I go to a school for people who have emotional problems). I feel safe there, I feel better there. Sept. 6th can not come fast enough. I need to go back... I need to get away from this house... from myself.

I cut... I can't believe that I cut... I hate myself.