In the midst of getting the cookie store open, I had a few moments of clarity. I almost put the tray down and called Z to meet me at the hospital. I thought briefly how much better off I'd be if I just resign to the idea that I really need 24 hour care right now.
Who do I have to take care of Emma and the animals?
The cutting helps. It just started today. I never ventured into such a damned act....
But it helps.
I like seeing how easy the blade slides into my skin. I am fearful that I won't stop. So easy.
I think about the razor and I want to keep picking it up and feeling that slight sting. It feels undeniably......good.
My wrist and hand bear witness to it. You can't tell what I've done because the space is red and slightly puffy. You can't tell unless you run your hand across my skin or if I stretch it taut to see the cuts.
I called Z after the first ones to have him stop me. I cut more after I told him I'd stop. Then I cut again after I talked to him hours later.
Is it to want Dr. Z to fix the fucked up brain in my head?
I'm unfairly angry at him, having stormed out of the room at the end of session. I am just tired. And I'm no help in the situation.
How is it that I talk so damn much but I don't talk about anything during my hour?
He's sick of me. I know it. He didn't even blink an eye when I told him that I didn't plan on seeing him for three weeks. Not a word when I told him that I had the day off next Wednesday and didn't want to see him.