In the winter cold
When I show you the demons under my sleeves-
I dont cut,
I’ve held it in as long as I can. I was finally healed again, but decided to cut. It was spur of the moment so my mind wasn’t ready; It will be next time.
It’s the most frustrating thing when I can’t get past the metaphorical hump self-harming . I feel like its not valid if its as superficial as this relapse. I know should be happy that I had a “bad” sesh, but I’m not, I want to cut so deep still.
I did want to cut to the fat, at the very least. I bought more butterfly strips just in case, so I wont have to get stitches again. The local e.r. is not the happiest with me at this point so facing them again is nerve racking.
When I got stitches, last time, the doctor simply ignored me for the whole hour, angrily sighing anytime I spoke.
I want to cut my arms, I want to butcher them, but I’m so afraid that ill be exposed. Yes, I have scars on them so no one would notice new ones as anything abnormal if they already knew, but I’m starting a new job soon. It worries me that I might need to push my sleeves up for something I’m doing. (I did dishes in long sleeves for months at my last job)
Its mainly that I’m more comfortable with cutting my legs; I’ve always worn pants no matter what, so it’s not abnormal; I was thinking about my calf’s this time.
I don’t want to keep venturing around my body dropping scars anywhere and everywhere, but in the end that’s how fucked up I am.