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   He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he gaze long into the abyss... only to find his own reflection.

Confessions of a Cutter (Self-Harm)

The urge to cut is very complex and needs to be written about. People really need to understand what cutting is--and I need to understand exactly why I want to cut myself [even though I have been doing it for a long time]. It's partly the anticipation, partly the pain, but mostly it's the blood.

The flow of blood, the warm flow, like tears. The warmth, the drip, the sticky stuff on my flesh and fingers. All of it.

The sharper the quicker the deeper. A razor blade at times is most appropriate. A serrated knife causes more pain and creates a wound that lasts a long time and itches like forever.

Sometimes picking the scab part of the reason to cut.

Small razors and knifes are best. No one uses a large blade. But sometimes something bigger is needed. Steak knives are not good, but a fillet knife may be.

While I write I think of preparation. I thought of my Swiss Army Knife but worried about it's edge [not being sharp enough].

I went up stairs and got a disposable razor. Not too good as is, but modified, the edge of the blade exposed by breaking the plastic, it then is. Very good indeed. I do that now...

I accidentally cut my finger--blood flows down it--but I don't remember how it got cut. The bright red on white is compelling. I want to cut so bad... my fingers, my hand. My stomach as I had planned on originally--everywhere... Fuck!

Maybe little cuts all over instead of one big one... I don't know. I contemplate...

I just cut my stomach pretty bad. Well, just a flesh wound. It was about 5 inches long. About a tenth of an inch deep.

Oh fuck, it's deep, it's bad. Lot's of blood. But, fuck, it feels good...

Why? Why does it feel so good!

This is the worst cut I did in a long time. It's bleeding a lot. Not life threatening [they never are], but clothes threatening [joke!] as I'll have lot of blood to clean up.

It's OK. I feel OK.

Writing Down the Pain
I'd like just once to fall asleep feeling good about myself. Just once. Drunken stupors do not count.