breaking hearts has never looked so cool [ 09.07.04 - 12:39 fuck. ] there is something wrong with me. i've been saying so for years, having it fall on deaf ears, but now it seems undeniable. i don't know who to talk to - hell, i doubt i'd even know what to say. i'm afraid to confide in anyone, mostly because i don't want to be locked up again. that was the worst experience of my entire life. laying on the floor of a tiny room with "property of b.c. mental health" stamped all over me like a grade of meat. god, i will do anything in my power to never go back. even suffer in silence when i obviously need help. my arm, now a lattice-work of scars and fresh cuts is a screaming declaration of this. i need help. i read things that i had written in my journal that night, things i don't recall writing at all. i don't want to die, that much is certain. i just recall the panicky need to hurt myself. so i did it. with my fist, i smashed the glass vase my mother had a bouquet delivered in on my 20th birthday and used the shards to slash the skin of my inner arm. dammit, i liked that vase. oh, i tried to find help first - called my mom, called the few friends i thought i could confide in, but no one was home. so, panting, sweating, crying, i did it. drew the glass across my arm like it wasn't mine. like it wasn't even something alive, something pulsing with blood. it was like something that i needed to destroy & if i succeeded in destroying, i would be human again. frustration was mounting after it didn't work the first time, or the second time, but i soon found a sharper edge to do the trick. nothing too deep, nothing too serious, your basic cry for help-type situation. in the mirror, the cuts sort of looked like the mark of zorro. in real life, they look like the cuts of a girl who probably should be locked up. was it a cry for help? if so, i did a bad job, considering i keep them covered with long sleeves, & since they've faded, a bit of coverup & white eyeshadow. why do i keep doing this? i'm embarrassed of this behavior - so juvenile, a stage like a particular phase of bad music. how many friends, how many lovers have noticed these marks, & asked where they came from only to have me spit out "fuck you" or stutter out some lame excuse. i'll be caught eventually - cats don't leave scars like these. sometimes i go weeks, months, even years without a fleeting thought of harming myself, and then i think i'm normal, sane & healthy again. but then i break down. something minimal happens & i find myself crouched in my room, pitifully scraping at my skin, jumpy as a heroin junkie. & after that, i obtain a fully-loaded sense of self-loathing. it's worse every time - the self-loathing, that is - but i can't seem to control myself sometimes. i'm humiliated. now i'm damaged not just mentally, but physically as well. i'm doomed to spend my life in long sleeves, i'm sure. i want help, but please god, i don't want to be locked up again. who do i talk to? what do i say? what's the right thing to do? i'm embarrassed to even be writing this - i feel like a fourteen year old whiney prat all over again. [ previous entry - next entry ]

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