Warning: This post talks about self-harm and probably reveals me to be a sick, twisted, attention seeking, borderline bitch.
Mood is still flat. I am compensating for this by reading books about puppies. BF has promised me a puppy when we move. I have always wanted a dog but my dad hates them so it’s a chance to do something I’ve always wanted and gives me something to really look forward to. I’m terrified that I’ll be a rubbish puppy mummy and probably traumatise the dog for life but if I read every book ever published on the subject at least I might have a chance. I’m hoping that a dog will help with my problems getting out the house and also get me some exercise. Plus it’ll make me liked because everyone loves a puppy and secretly all I’ve ever wanted is to be liked.
Anyway, this post wasn’t meant to be about puppies, cute as they are. I’m struggling at the moment with really strong visual flashbacks to the height of my depression which are proving to be completely unshiftable unless I work really hard on keeping my mind distracted. One is of me with a knife buried so deep in my arm that you can’t see the blade, attempting to take a picture with the other hand and being disappointed to find the camera battery flat. I wanted the photo because I thought it was vaguely interesting that you could do that and I thought people on t’interweb may appreciate seeing it too. What kind of fucked up individual am I?
There are others too. Me at the pub with an infection in my arm that’s caused it to swell to twice its usual size explaining that I didn’t need medical treatment, I was just fine, this was normal behaviour. Attempting to catch the blood I was losing in a cup so I could measure just how much it was and wondering how much would cause me any serious damage or make me feel any different. Working through the dressings in my first aid kit because nothing would stop the blood flow and then trying to explain them away the next day.
I can’t get rid of them and no matter how much they make me despise myself, I can’t help but feel slightly jealous of the girl that I was. I’m currently not self-harming for the sake of my BF but the flashbacks are reminding me of just how good it was. Why after how far I’ve come do I want to start again? What kind of crazy individual am I? I hate myself so much.