December 3, 2002
My Addiction

My addiction to cutting my wrists is out of control. I hadn't done it in so long. Several months. Then last week, it all just came back, very suddenly. The depression took over, and next thing I knew, I was wondering how to die. I considered overdosing on my Zoloft, but turned that down because it was too scary. So I scoured the bathroom drawer for something, anything sharp. The least suspicious item - an earring.

Earrings don't cut, let me tell you that. They're far too dull. But it's like tattooing yourself. I make the initial line, scraping off the skin so that two parallel pink lines are visible. I sort of feel guilty about using my brother's and my dad's razors, but I thought they would work. Hardly. Besides, the medicine numbs my feelings of guilt and things, so it didn't really bother me.

Then I found a tack in my room, which was like a miracle. It made the lines more precise. I found the cutting to be like art. The razors made four symmetrical lines, so I sort of worked with those. It was interesting. I finally took a kitchen knife (after tapping each one for sharpness of the blade) and basically just sliced my skin open. It didn't bleed as much as I'd imagined, but an insane rush.

A rush I don't think I can live without.

The scars are infected and in your face. I panic in school to cover them, only wearing long sleeve shirts and clasping my wrists. I can't let anyone see. Of course, half the people in school have seen this at some point, and may even know already. I couldn't get the fucking feeling out my head. I'd peek down my sleeve every once in a while, picturing the next cut. I was going insane. Everything reminded me of it. Someone was describing cutting in history. How it bled for 4 hours on someone. It doesn't bleed for four hours, you're a fucking liar. Then my friend and I were seeing if we could get a safety pin through the tops of our hands. Unsuccessful, but funny. Everytime the phone would ring in class, I'd worry that it was the guidance couselor asking for me.

I never understood addiction before, like with drugs and alcohol, since I've never had something that I've needed so desperately in my life. Maybe this isn't addiction. But whatever it is, it's strong, and it's controlling me. How am I supposed to concentrate in class when I can feel my wrists throbbing, practically hear them begging to be mutilated? How can I talk to anyone without wondering if they've ever cut themselves before?

I actually came out to my mom today. My psychologist told her, "I'm worried about Molly, and I want you to call me when you get home." In the car, she was asking many questions, until finally I said, "If you want me to come right out with it, I've been trying to kill myself." A short silence, followed by an "Ok." We talked about it for a little while, about how my dad frustrates both of us, about depression, about people she's known, about people I know, and I actually showed her the cuts. I thought her reaction would be worse, but it wasn't that bad.

Unfortunately, my psychologist also wants me to go to a hospital. They will first boost up my medicine, but if I feel as though I honestly cannot help myself or stop myself from cutting, as if I feel it's a necessity, then I will go to a hospital. When she first mentioned the idea months ago, I was petrified. Now I'm relieved. I don't want to think of the hospital like a prison. I know I shouldn't be doing this to myself, but with the boredom and anxiety in my life, it's one thing that occupies my time and mind.

I hate that I love it.

But I do love it.

- Molly{6:06 pm}

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