Listening to: Tori Amos, Tear in Your Hand
Checking out: Unreliable Narrator (benjy)

Things are getting dangerous. I took those pills in the bath because I missed feeling pain, I missed the acute feelings as opposed to the fuzzy numb nothing that Paxil brings or the distant lethargy I'd been in. This is what getting better feels like, and it's unfamiliar to me. I'm not so sure I like it. Want to slice, to have the "courage" to leave my thoughts behind and be free to be chained to my nice cozy misery. Sounds sick and warped even as I write it, but I miss feeling so horrible because at least then I felt SOMETHING. Now I'm just here. The flame killing the candle. There are too many razorblades and sharpthings in my house. At the Depeche Mode show [the other night] and more so at the Castle, I caught myself wishing for newer lines, newer scars, more blood. M has been cutting again - newish red badges of courage, dearie. Places that used to be mine - upper arms, straight across. I seem to be moving lower. Fuck fuck, I don't want to tonight but lately everything stresses me to the point of violence; the thought of hurting another person makes me sick, but it always seems perfectly reasonable to inflict violence on myself as an outlet. J says to me, "we need to find you another outlet for this." Fuck you, dear. I need to fix myself first.