Is it at all odd that I'm more angry with myself for not knowing why I did it than I am for having done it?
I cut last night. Fourteen months clean, down the drain. Two bouts of wanting to cut and not. And somehow this one got me. I cut into my skin eight times, and I haven't the slightest clue why. I've been wracking my brain all damn night, haven't slept at all, and I still have no good ideas.
Was it because I couldn't get my brain to shut up earlier? If so, cutting is a stupid way to stop that, since it inevitably makes it worse.
Was it because my mom has cancer and I'm still maybe a little freaked out by that? Possibly, but I don't think it was the main thing.
Was it because I had an anxiety attack earlier this week and wanted to cut then, but instead went to my therapist and talked it out? Possibly. Certainly that day got the idea back into my head.
Was it because I didn't finish the stupid test during which I had the aforementioned anxiety attack?
Was it because I didn't go to class for a week simply because I couldn't muster the energy to get out of bed? Was it because I missed class yet again yesterday because I was actually sick?
Was it because I was overthinking the evening I spent playing video games with my across-the-hall roommate? Maybe he didn't have fun? Maybe he was irritated by my constantly giving him advice? Maybe, maybe, maybe?
Was it because I kept thinking about scars and how so few of the twenty-seven cuts I made last year left scars? Yes, I know exactly how many times I cut last year.
Was it all of the above?
Probably.
And now I'm out a night of sleep, a perfectly good razor blade, a few ounces of blood, and my self-esteem is shot. Not that the last was particularly good to begin with.
And I'm also in a state of self-loathing and general discomfort.
And I'm still sick. So ain't that a bitch.
