I don't want to wake up tomorrow.

I didn't feel like going to work today, so I took a long drive. I had no specific destination in mind. I just wanted to escape for awhile. I thought about heading to the mountains and camping in my car for a couple days, fantasized about driving to another state and starting life over again, even briefly thought about driving off a cliff, but I didn't. I drove straight east for 90 miles and realized that I was near a city I use to live in. I hadn't planned on visiting, but since I had nothing else to do, I got off the highway. Growing up, we lived in 5 different homes in that city over the course of 9 years. I drove around to see if I could find them, I only found one, a dilapidated apartment complex. I didn't park, but drove past it a few times and tried to remember what it looked like inside. I remember the living room, the sofa, the kitchen, the bathrooms, but for the life of me, could not remember what my room looked like. Did I have a room? It was a long time ago and we only lived there a few months. They were dark months.

On my third or fourth trip around the block, I noticed a women on the sidewalk with a big stick chasing and hitting a man with it. The woman looked disheveled, possibly homeless, and really pissed. The man was laughing while dodging the blows and trying to get away from her. The laughing annoyed me. A piece of me wanted to run him over with my car, which I would never do. Was he laughing at her for chasing him with a stick, for being angry? Did he do something to her that he thought was funny and she didn't? I don't know the circumstances of the argument. Maybe he was just some random passerby who laughs nervously when homeless women chase him with sticks.

I'm back home now and nauseous. My stomach's been unsettled since yesterday's psyche appt. I wonder if its the medication or maybe just nerves. Who knows.

I wonder why my scars are more visible when my hands are wet and wrinkly from sitting in the bathtub. I'll have to look that up on google.

I went to my first psychiatry appointment today. Feeling a little buyers remorse, wondering if I over-shared. She was much easier to talk to than the therapist I saw several months ago. I didn't sense any false sympathy or judgement. She was very straightforward and professional. Question - answer - diagnosis - meds., boom, boom, boom. I think it was a productive 45 minutes. I was still ridiculously nervous, but I typed out what I wanted to say beforehand and this helped ALOT. Just put it all on the table. Well, mostly. I wasn't completely straightforward when she asked me about suicidal thoughts. I told her I had vague thoughts and a vague plan. But in actuality, I have a very detailed plan. I'm NOT going to kill myself, but I like to know I have a way out if I need it. I kinda regret not telling her though. She also asked about past abuse. I told her there was abuse in my past, but thats all I could say. I froze up. I knew I would. After an awkward silence, I was able to say I'd prefer not to talk about it. She didn't push it.

It was a long 45 minutes, but I'm glad I went. I got a ptsd and depression diagnosis and some zoloft and sleeping pills. I'm hoping they help reduce my urge to cut, if nothing else, but I know it'll take time. Right now I'm exhausted and drained. I want to curl up in a warm blanket and go to sleep.

I've found that binder clips help a bit. They're less damaging than razors, don't bleed, don't scar. They cause pain while I need it, but when removed, the memory of the pain fades and I don't have to look at scars and feel guilty later. They don 't replace my razors completely. Sometimes I just need to see blood, but sometimes they work. And I think they're healthier, overall, than the razors.

I've been cutting at least since I was 11. It started out with needles. Poking needles in my hand when I'd get mad or frustrated. In the seventh grade, a friend got annoyed that I didn't call her and carved her number in my arm with a pencil. It didn't bleed much, mostly just bruised, but I think thats where I got the idea for cutting instead of poking. I continued through high school. A wood carving knife being my instrument of choice. I mostly stabbed with the knife, rather than cut. Nobody noticed. Nobody cared. I mostly kept to myself. At some point, I started poking myself in the eye with pens. I remember feeling numb, so numb that nothing felt real. I was invisible. Cutting my shoulder, my hand, my ***** didn't hurt anymore. I couldn't feel anything, so I started poking my eye. That didn't last long. I don't know why I stopped, probably common sense, I didn't want to go blind. I found piercings at 17. When I'd get a new hole, I'd pull on the jewelery to cause pain. They'd often get infected and the pain would last for months. When it would heal, I'd get another one. I'd get most excited when one closed because I could re-pierce it. Piercing through scare tissue always hurt the most.

School was my distraction from cutting. I enjoyed being occupied, attending classes, learning things. I dreaded lunch hours, anytime I'd have to socialize with the other kids. I never knew the right things to say to people. I didn't know how to make friends. Still don't. In high school, the piercings helped because people would approach me and ask me about them, as if I were cool for getting them, some kind of rebel. It was nice when people would talk to me. When I left high school, it was just me and my thoughts and my blades. My cutting was its worst the months following graduation when I was living on my own and was left mostly to my own thoughts. I decided to enroll in some classes at the local city college. Between classes and work, I had very little time to myself and this helped. When I transferred from the city college to a university, my cutting stopped completely. I was hundreds of miles from my family and everyone I'd ever known. That was the best thing for me, the new start. I didn't cut at the university. I found alcohol, and partying, and one night stands. I didn't need to cut because I felt alive.

Its been almost 15 years since college. I hadn't felt a strong urge to cut again until 2 months ago. The thought just popped in my head. The urge was unbearable. I couldn't resist. Along with that came my nightmares, my nausea, bits of memories that are too fragmented to make sense. The more I cut, the more I remember and the more I remember, the more I cut. I've been cutting everyday and I can't stop. In addition, I've developed a new craving. A craving for violent porn. Its a weird craving since I'm not a violent person.

The binder clips are helping. I made a therapy appointment, but is a month away. I have to hold it together until then.

I want it to end now. I'm tired. I don't want to remember. Once I remember, it doesn't go away. It just keeps bouncing and bouncing around in my head. I'm tired of punishing myself, but I can't stop. I have to play it over and over. I want it to end. Cutting isn't helping tonight. I can't cut it out.

I need to sleep.