Where I Am Now (may contain triggers)

One night, three weeks ago, I opened a small bottle of cheap whiskey in my flat and drank enough of it to make hurting myself seem like a good idea. I'm not blaming the alcohol. I've been drunk before without consequences. I think a part of me was aware that I would not do it sober.

I've thought about it every once in a while over the years. Six years. I managed six years.

I remember the pain of trying to stop, the emotional mess I got myself into over it. So each time it pops up, I stop myself. It's not worth it. Have a drink instead. Distract myself. 

But this time was different. I suppose the alcohol was the self harm to begin with. I wanted to be drunk and silly and out of it. But because of the alcohol, I stopped caring. There seemed like no good reason not to. I felt nostalgic for it. And I happened to have the perfect implement. 

A blade, stolen from work. Was it premeditated? Yes and no. I could justify it to myself; if I need to do it and I have a sterile blade, it'll be cleaner, less messy than whatever I have in the house. Kitchen knives cut too deep, I might cause more damage than intended because I don't have a sharp blade. So I took it, about three months ago. I hid it in the tiny pocket inside my handbag. And I forgot about it. 

I forgot all about it until about half way through the bottle of whiskey. Then I remembered, and I wanted it.

Being drunk, I was not careful. I cut too far down my arms. The panic that somebody might see the wounds haunted me for the next few weeks. They have faded to narrow scratches now. 

The next morning was hell. Hungover, tired, emotionally drained but not guilt-ridden, confused, pensive. 

The questions: why? Am I going to do it again? Do I need to do it again? Is it going to be every day or every now and then? 

I didn't really feel like I needed it, but when the scars are fresh it is more difficult to stop. You see them healing and fading, and you want to make more. So I did. Always at night, in bed. I could do it now. It feels like an indulgence - like eating too much when you're not even hungry. The pattern is different from six years ago. Back then I had a clear idea of what I needed; harming myself was absolutely necessary. I hated myself. I felt disconnected from the world around me. I needed the release. It was a drug. The emotions were intense, scary and addictive.

I've been more depressed than this, more numb, more upset, more sure that I was useless, that the world had nothing to offer me, that I was alone and pathetic. I cried, felt miserable and physically sick, hid in the toilets at work.... But I didn't self-harm. Now things have picked up, work is fine, not too much stress, no boyfriend trouble, no family trouble, nothing, now I get drunk and reach for the scalpel blade. Who knows? Maybe I'm just bored. Maybe I am horrendously depressed but I haven't found a way to let it all out yet. 

It isn't sane, level-headed behaviour, what I've done, so there must be something wrong. I'm still thinking about it. I would like to do it again. I don't feel afraid of it or desperate not to do it again. I don't feel like I'm balanced delicately on the top of a downward spiral. I suppose I don't know where this is going. We'll see.