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)

Morning. That previous entry was written while pretty intoxicated. There is blood on the pages of this notebook.

That night I went out. I had scored my left breast three times, put on a white tshirt that stopped the blood, then put on a black shirt to cover it up. I remember being out, at the bar--it was good. Many young people. Some guy even tried to pick up a conversation with me--which is unusual--I figured he was gay. I talked with him for a while before--

Why am I doing this? WTF does it matter? Do you care? Am I supposed to learn from this, this writing? Yeah, I'm fucked up when I'm drunk. But I am compelled to write...

I left at last call--so many times alone in a bar just watching, just watching and wanting, and leaving alone. I don't remember the walk home as is usual, as the many consumed beers start to affect the brain.

The next morning I discovered many, many new razor cuts on my chest. Not deep, quite superficial actually--

The razor was on the table. I wrapped it up in tape and tossed it in the trash. That's part of the thing--the morning after hate. Hate of the razor. Hate of having done it.

But not hate of the scars.

I knew then as I do now, five days later, that I would caress these cuts, pick at their scabs, run my finger tips over them to soothe their itch. I rub them and can't wait until they heal and turn to scars. And I will have more to rub, to feel, to scratch, to live with as... testament to my inner hatred of my body.

I hate my body so much I love to hurt it.

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