Just a few hours ago, I left a meeting with my chief mental health practitioner in tears. Actually, I bolted. The man is one of the rare - gah; practically extinct - kind of people I am able to respect.

The session was good and I was able to open up about a number of things I wanted to get off my chest, wanted him to know about. I know I came across as centered, strong, determined, goal-oriented, etc. I usually do in social situations. It was all well. Really, really well. Until he introduced the fact that I am practically being handed over to the woman I am going to see for psychotherapy.

I crashed. Unbelievably quick and hard. No, there is no inappropriate attachment going on, not even the shadow of it. He was just someone I really liked and respected. He is not a "people-pleaser" and as such a real rarity and it made me trust him. The minute he suggested that his team works only for so long with people, I crashed, completely.

I left the venue majorly upset. The place is located in a fairly quite street and I spent a good 15 minutes just sobbing, leaning against a rough stone wall. That's how it happened. I found some loose, sharp bits of stone and I scraped a shard out. I just rolled up my sleeve and practically ravaged my wrist. I found it awfully satisfying. Much better than any blade. I painted the stones of the wall with a bit of blood.

I think I found a whole new world. I know it is sick beyond belief but I loved how the sharp limestone cut into my flesh leaving grains in the wound. I guess, cutting with a sharp stone might actually be safer. I had this awful feeling that it is actually artistic.

OMG... just forgive me, guys. I know I am sick. I know I am sick...