I’m listening to my breathing as the urge takes a hold of me. The two days old red lines on my thighs hurt. I used a blunt blade. Stupid craft knife. I want -I need- an actual razor blade. The alcohol is coursing through my veins. I used to think I was incapable of cutting when I’m drunk. Not true.
There is not even a trigger for this urge. Just me fighting. Cutting is an addiction. If I slide down that path more than once in a few days… I am back in that world of pain. And there I do not need any triggers whatsoever.
Sometimes I manage to distract myself until the urge has gone away. That is actually the case fairly often. Thank God. But with every time I cannot. With every bloody letter on my skin I spiral down a bit deeper. And the further I fall the greater the chance of me cutting again.
I know the mechanisms. It is not like I am blind. And I say I want to stop. But I am doubting my own words. I am questioning my own motivation. Do I really really want to stop? Have I become so addicted? Do I want to fight? Do I really want to find the energy to fight the urge? Would it not be so much easier to just give in and decide to not care about what cutting means to anyone else? Because it is release for me. Or is it?