*WARNING: GRAPHIC! I JUST NEED TO GET THIS OUT...*
Well, I started cutting a little over two months ago. I had always told myself that I would never do that. I had thought of it before and been so close to actually doing it, but I would never follow through. Until July 22nd. It wasn't bad. My razor was dull, and I only cut my fingers so they could possibly pass for papercuts, if I was asked. After that night, I made an appointment to get mental health help, finally. I didn't like the person I was that night and who I felt like I had become; everything was just getting worse and worse, and I felt so out of control. After a month, I was put on medicine. I take trazodone and a generic medicine for Zoloft. Neither of them are helping me, but I have had a hallucination while on them, and frequently suffer from nausea and diarrhea (embarrassing as it is). I have, also, noticed that I am much more irritable. Loud noises or people talking at the same time or pretty much anything can make me feel like my head's just going to explode. So, after a month, I hadn't cut, and I was pretty proud of that. I had thought about it and wanted to do it many times, but I had overcome the urge, and I was satisfied with myself. However, Monday was different. After two months of not cutting, I did it, again. I can't even tell you what my trigger was. I don't deal well with stress, and everything seems to stress me out. I was having a difficult day and week and month, and everything was just so difficult. So, I figured out a way to do it. I decided to just cut a little; just a few cuts, and I'd be done. I had found a serrated knife in a nightstand by my bed, and I got an alcohol pad from my first aid kit. I told my mom I was going to shave (I did shave, though, so I didn't technically lie...). I turned up music and ran the water. I washed my forearm, especially around my wrist, and cleaned the knife off with the alcohol pad. And I cut myself. Over and over and over, again. At least, fifty times, and most likely a lot more than that. I cut until I saw blood, and I kept going. I felt the knife's serrated edges getting stuck in my skin, and I just pulled them through and kept cutting. I saw blood and skin on the knife, and there were so many marks below my wrist, but I couldn't stop. I sat there, literally sawing at my arm with the knife, for at least fifteen minutes... I cut until the physical pain was worse than the emotional pain. I cut until it hurt so badly that I nearly screamed and cried with pain. I had lost the control that I thought I had. Control is just an illusion. It's my facade; the problem is that I don't know what is beneath the facade, now. And I have no control, and I have never felt that out of control before. I tremble when I talk about it, and it hurts to think about it. I didn't know that woman in the bathroom. I don't know myself, anymore. I'm afraid. And I cleaned off the knife and hid it back in my nightstand, for next time...