"You feel the tingling below your flesh, are saturated by the screaming thoughts in your mind, listen to your strange reflection’s persuasive words. Do it. Just once. It will make it all go away. It will make you feel better. Burns at first because you are too terrified by what you are doing to yourself. A curling iron, a lighter, cigarettes. Your trembling hand then the bite of the heat and goosebumps racing over your skin. Then you embrace the behavior and move on to cutting. It is a beautiful transition, as if you had been a cutter all your life. Your hands quiver until you fall into that heavy trance. The world falls silent except for your thumping heart. The sharp knife twitches in your hand. An awkward, tentative cut then another – deeper, deeper, always in a line. Your body disappears; you feel nothing but the slice and the thick tranquility to follow, letting the blood escape in front of the other in the mirror. She always smiles.

You need to lie to disguise all of these distractions. Tell your parents you’re working or staying at a friend’s house when you are out drinking or having meaningless sex. The cigarettes and the smell are your friend’s, not yours. The burns are from the popcorn popper at work. You convince yourself that your lies are true in front of your parents. If they question you, you get so enraged that they simply believe you. You learn to lie fluently; it becomes easier than the truth.

Cradle all the consequences of your destructive behaviors close to you. You need to dwell on every one, turn it on yourself, blame yourself completely. Make decisions that you can torture yourself over for years. They are excuses to hate yourself, reasons to be fucked up. You go back to bed with the same men or always the same type of men. They don’t care about you, and you feel dead inside. It must be because you’re worthless; it must be because you’re not good enough for better. You miscarry a child before you know you are pregnant. You must have drank it to death; it must have rejected your body. You take the wrong drink from a guy and are too drunk to fight back when he pushes himself on you. You must have drank too much; you must have let him. It all has to be your fault. Perpetuate your self-loathing, and dive deeper into your disease. "
http://bipolarswirl.blogspot.ca/2006/08/writing-how-to-kill-yourself-slowly.html


This is me. This is who I am, have always been, and will always be. To convince myself I'm fixed, better, is to convince a maggot he is a butterfly. It would be a lie. And I hate being lied to, by anybody.
I can't be fixed. I can only numb what's lingering inside me for a short period of time. It isn't long before a thought--an ideation-- comes clambering upwards. I could try to repress it; I have been doing that for months. But it's just so exhausting. Hiding myself deep down in dark crevices of myself.. that's not me. I'm not me.. This is who I am.


And you, you are nothing but a distraction.. or perhaps I am the distraction. I think we're using each other as such.. you to distract yourself from everything in your life that has told you you're inadequate. Especially she-who-shall-not-be-named. Me, well, perhaps I've used you too. To cling to someone who might actually care about me. But pain is my pleasure, and I can't kid myself for a second to believe I'm happy when I'm happy.