Tag Archives: self harm

Glimmers of Answer


Sometimes they come to us, those little answers, those tiny ideas that help us find ways to move forward. Today I had one, a small one, an answer to a question that’s plagued me for almost 2 decades.

Why do I hurt myself? Why do I self-harm?

In high school, I talked candidly about my harm with a friend. He asked why I did it. I told him it was because it was a way to feel, but that answer never really felt completely right.

In the work and counselling I’ve done since, I’ve been asked again and again why I harm, why I used to harm, why I stopped. I’ve never had an answer. Everything that I’ve read talks about it being a mental thing, that you’re in so much pain mentally that you want to feel it physically, or that you’re so dissociated mentally that causing pain brings you back. None of those answers made sense to me.

Last night I mentioned a numbness. I said that when I get urges to harm, I’m working through a numbness.

Today, I connected, I got an answer.

I don’t know if the root is mental or physical, but I get into a state of physical numbness. It’s like there’s an extra layer between me and the rest of the world. The ground feels farther from my feet. The keyboard feels further from my fingertips. The cat feels farther from my face. The longer I sit, doing nothing, in this state, the more I feel the need to feel. Challenging hikes help, with lots of scrambling over rocks, bumping knees, scraping fingers. Meditating in the ocean, or really, just putting my body in the freezing water for as long as I can stand it helps. Getting a new tattoo is always good when I feel like this. Sex is 50/50, but acts of BDSM with a partner (with or without the sex component) definitely help. And so does self harm.

I messaged a friend today, the friend I spoke to the night I cut myself, and I told him my revelation. I told him that it’s a physical need to feel through the numbness (whatever the source of the numbness is). I said I just needed to find a healthier way to fill the need when I couldn’t do something like climb rocks for 3 hours or soak myself in near freezing water for an hour. He came over this evening with an answer. He gave me his micro needle therapy roller thing (it looks like a little roller brush, except instead of bristles, there’s needles). It works. It has that same needed sensation that I seek without the causing physical damage component.

I’ll be okay, really, I will. Things will get better and I’ll slowly piece together the answers of my brain.




It’s odd sometimes when the world comes crashing down around you. Everything moves on, moves forward. It feels like everyone else, everything else is fine. Nothing’s changed. And yet, for you, everything’s changed.

My partner and I stayed together for a whole two months before we broke up. We decided to stay friends, and quickly added back sexual and D/s activities, though we’ve done way more of the sex than the D/s stuff. We have continued to spend an inordinate amount of time together and he’s continued to help me with my plans to get better at schoolwork.

I submitted an application to a general studies program at the local college, since I missed the deadline for applications for the undergrad program that I want to take at the university. It’s probably better this way as it’ll give me a chance to bump up my GPA in a smaller class-size setting.

I was asked to join the facilitators for a trans youth support group (kids under 12 mostly). That’s gone mostly nowhere so far, but I’ll be going to a group soon to see what it’s like and where my role might be in it.

The support group that I facilitate ended up petering out, and I cancelled it going forward. Hardly anyone was attending and I couldn’t justify holding the space.

I was asked to speak on a panel at a conference. The ask came several months ago and the conference was 2 days ago. I took the day off work and went. It was my first time being asked to speak, first time speaking. I was stressed and anxious in the lead up, but the day itself went fantastically. I felt very much in my element at the conference which was very odd to consider. We discussed a lot of really heavy topics though, which have been hard to digest.

I got told by my building manager two weeks ago that my cat was causing noise complaints. I’m not supposed to have a cat here, but he told me that it would be fine as long as there were no more noise complaints. She cries out when I’m gone too long, too much, because she desires human connection too much. I ended up getting internet at home, something I have spent the last 4 months since moving here avoiding, so that a friend could come over and catsit while he does his work online.

At the same time as all of this, I’m slowly coming to the crushing realization that I’m at a point of “now or never” with respect to having children. I turn 28 very soon and I don’t want to be an old parent. I don’t have anyone to co-parent with me right now and I have a 10-year plan for school. But, I’m feeling this desperate need to have kids and have them as soon as possible. I don’t want to wait, I don’t want to put it off. I don’t want to find out that it’s not possible anymore. The idea that it might not be possible now is painful.

There’s a certain numbness that I feel sometimes, when so much is going on. There’s too much to process, to work through, too much to try to sort out. My life right now is in a massive state of turmoil, chaos. I’ve been saying it’s good chaos, but any chaos is difficult to handle and deal with.

I want things to settle and I want there to be a certain clarity of where I’m going, but I haven’t even heard if I got into the college yet.

I just want to curl up and hide, tuck myself away and vanish. Not into bedsheets or a chair or couch, but into the forest, the world, nature. I just want to disappear for a time until all things are sorted.

Last night, I went to dinner with my friend. I was slow to get up in the morning, hadn’t eaten well during the day, was feeling generally good about things having just completed the conference, but didn’t manage to pick up groceries or make dinner. After dinner at the pub, my friend and I picked up some drinks and headed to my place. We talked a bit. My muscles have been twitchy and spasmy lately and he’s noticed. I showed him a video I took of what it looked like in 2011 and he suggested that tourettes might be the answer, so we talked about that some. We walked to his place and back to mine, had some more drinks, and watched a movie. It was, amazingly, the first movie that I’ve managed to sit through beginning to end in one sitting with nothing to occupy my hands in ages, years maybe (theatre experiences aside). We talked and drank a bit after the movie ended and he headed home. I got up and went to the bathroom and on leaving the bathroom had the urge to grab a knife and cut myself. It was so strong that I actually grabbed the knife on my way back to my living space. I sat in front of the computer for half an hour, posting here, talking to that same friend on facebook. I reached out to him, and several other people, he was the one who responded. I couldn’t get the urge out of my head so I told him I’d call the crisis line, which I did, knife still in hand. I talked to the counselor on the phone and talked out a bit of what all I’ve put in this post. He asked about motives, asked about where the urge comes from. He asked if I ever contemplated suicide (I haven’t, ever). He eventually asked if I’d be okay to go to bed, to which I said yes. What he didn’t know, couldn’t tell, was that while I was talking to him, I gave myself 3 small “scratches” on my leg with the knife. There’s a numbness I get when I have the urge to cut, a numbness that kills whatever pain I would feel from my already high pain tolerance. I hung up the phone from the crisis line and sent a message to my friend saying I was going to bed and not to worry. I messaged him as soon as I was up in the morning as well.

I honestly don’t know why I get the urges to self harm, cut or otherwise. I don’t know what makes me want to act on them. I don’t know how I’ve been able to say no to doing it for the last 7+ years. I don’t know why it’s so bad right now.

When I’m out with people, doing things, going places, talking, connecting, they all seem to think I’m well put together, that I’ve got life sorted out, that I can make things work and go well. The truth is, I can’t, I’m not okay, and I haven’t been for a very long time. I try so very hard to make everything okay. I do all the self care things, do everything I can to help myself work through the big feelings that are so hard to deal with and handle. I do everything that it seems like I should be doing, but nothing ever seems to go the way it should.

I’ve had a tagline somewhere for the last decade or so “wishing for a time when money didn’t matter and hurts were cured with a kiss from mom.” I’ve never changed it because the wish has never gone away. I’ve never stopped wishing that things got better. I’ve never stopped hoping that I would find answers and connections.

I’ve never stopped feeling so lost and alone.

Life is chaos, and no matter how good that chaos is, the chaos itself is what drives me to madness.



I want to hurt. I want to feel physical pain. I have ideas popping into my head one after another after another about what I could do to cause myself pain in a way that I could re-build the pain for days and weeks to come.

I haven’t felt this way in a long time.

I’m stressed, I’m anxious, I want life to settle down, I know that life will start settling down after the last couple weeks of chaos (I owe another post about how life’s shifted again). I have had a few drinks tonight, but the drinks don’t really change how I feel, they just make me less likely to have inhibitions towards doing it.

I want to take my knife, any knife. I want to cut myself in an area that is easily hidden, easily explained. Three short cuts would do it, I can blame them on the cat as I’ve one so many times before.

I haven’t cut myself in over 6 years… tonight that might change…

More Appointments


Today, I saw my GP. I got to ask for a referral to get a diagnosis for some kind of a-neuro-typicality. I’ve known for a long time that I’m not neuro-typical, but I haven’t felt the need to get a diagnosis for it. Some of my past therapists and psychiatrists have suggested that I might have ADD, ADHD, sensory processing issues, OCD… My last psychiatrist did a brief assessment between me and my mom and told me that it was very likely that I fell on the Autism Spectrum (the “Asperger’s” end), but that he wouldn’t give me a diagnosis.

So, today, I had a thorough talk with my GP about the potential diagnosis, the first steps in the process, and why I’m seeking an answer now of all times. Despite living in the land of “free health care,” the diagnosis is going to come out of pocket for me. I’m okay with that, in the long term, I feel like I’ll save money. I’m seeking the diagnosis because I intend on returning to school. I know that I don’t do well in a university classroom, and I want to change that. I feel like having a diagnosis and answers about what can help me, will enable me to get the assistance and accommodations I need at university in order to succeed. It may cost a bunch to get the diagnosis, but in the end, I’ll save money by actually completing my courses instead of failing them and ending up with a higher earning potential.

Tuesday (two days ago), I had a different appointment. I had my intake with the local sexual assault clinic. I don’t know if I’ve talked about this in past posts, I don’t read my post history. I was in an abusive relationship for two years fresh out of high school. My first sexual encounter (in grade 12) was coerced. When I was a live-in nanny and doing everything I could to escape the abusive household I worked for, I spent a lot of time at the bar. One of those nights, I didn’t go “home” and ended up spending it with someone I thought was a friend, who raped me.

I’m dealing with a lot of anxiety and emotion lately and I feel like I could really make use of the clinic’s group courses that they offer to deal with everything that’s coming to light right now. However, I’m not sure that counselling with the center is what I need because so much of what I’m dealing with is life-long, not just what’s gone on since sex became a part of my life.

Self-harm is one of those things that pops up as a life-long issue. I have three potential earliest memories. 1: A dream, very vivid, thought it was real life, and related it to my family on waking as “yesterday” until I was corrected. 2: Sitting in the stroller beside a brick wall, trying to work out how the buckle functions so that I can escape and go play. 3: Sitting on the top bunk of my sister’s bed, with a hammer I had stolen from the garage, hammering at my knee trying to break my kneecap. I cried when I couldn’t do any damage. I had a plan for if I had succeeded to “fall” off the bunk then claim I had fallen and that’s how I broke my knee.

This stands out because it’s a clear thought, clear plan, and a distinct memory. However, there’s nothing in my head for before this (all three of these things happened within a year of each other, if not closer together). Self-harm is one of those things that doesn’t just spontaneously appear. There has to be a reason, a why, a cause. You don’t just wake up and decide “oh, I’m going to do permanent damage to myself.” Something has to happen to you first. One group that’s more at risk for self-harm is those who are LGBT, of which I am both G and T (gay and trans), but at that age, I didn’t know or have any inkling of either. It would be years after this age before I started really expressing frustration about gender expression. Self -harm typically doesn’t start to show up until late childhood/early teens, and this memory is definitely from when I was no more than 3.

All this boils down to a question that popped up when I was hanging with a friend, refocusing, after the intake meeting:

Did anything happen to me (and possibly my sibling) when I was quite young that I just can’t remember? Does my sibling remember?

Present Knowledge Out of the Past


Fair Forewarning: This post deals with intense emotional/physical trauma and abuse

The last two weeks, last three weekends, I have not so much as stepped outside my comfort zone as leaped outside it.

Two weekends ago (night of July 1st), I agreed to stay late in town to watch the fireworks, then go to a dance and stay over at a friend’s house. I have never gone to an adult dance or club before. And have basically never slept over at someone’s house as an adult (outside of relationships), despite several attempts at it.

Last weekend was Pride. My friends convinced me to march in the parade. I have never seen the parade, never gone to any pride events and certainly never marched before. Knowing how I work, I convinced myself to go to another dance on Saturday night and stay over at (the same) friend’s house then go to the march together. On Saturday when I was getting ready to go, I got a phone call saying the bloodwork I’d done first thing in the morning had come back and the numbers were off which meant I needed to see my GP ASAP. I had only just given myself my first low-dose of testosterone at the time. Later, at the dance, I ended up hanging out mostly with two guys who I had just met, dancing, and chatting. The night at my friend’s house went fine, and we got to the parade on time. However, after parting ways (he was marching with a different group), I couldn’t locate my group. I walked the length of the parade and asked for help, but no one could help me. That drove me to actually make a phone call, something I only very rarely do, to a friend who equally dislikes phone calls. I finally met up with my group, and that friend, and realized that I was in the middle of a full blown anxiety attack.

My last anxiety attack, and my first one (only ever had three) were in the first half of my four months of no sleep, three years ago.

I did the march, I couldn’t not. My friend I spent the night with had my backpack at his house, and my current primary support network was right there in the parade. So, I marched. At the end, where the celebrations were, I told my friends that I needed to be with them in some quiet spot for a little bit. We ended up sitting for close to two hours before I was okay to move around again. After that, the day went well.

The fallout has been beyond imagination.

The disassociation I experienced with the risperidone had far reaching effects. I’m still working on putting all the pieces together of what changed and what I lost and what needs finding again. I found one of those pieces at Pride last weekend and I never knew I’d lost it.

The anxiety attacks I had three years ago were paired with a heightened general anxiety due to lack of sleep and lack of control over my general life situation. But, they were isolated.

The anxiety attack I had last weekend opened a door in my mind to realizing what anxiety actually feels like. That door stayed open and I realized that I live my life on a daily basis just sitting at the edge of anxiety.

I’ve spent the last week trying to work through it and process why I’m feeling the way I’m feeling. Certainly, I shouldn’t feel anxious about getting on a bus, something I do 4-10 times a day every day, but this week has taught me that I do. One of my coping mechanisms, one of my ways of processing things, is to have conversations. I will end up having the same conversation over and over and over again until I’ve completely exhausted all the people I can confide in so I can try to deconstruct everything that happened and everything that I’m feeling. I’ve spent my week in conversations.

Which brings me to this weekend and some of my big eye-openers about why I feel the way I feel.

On Thursday, I went to dinner with a friend. We had initially bonded over some awkward experiences with one of our mutual friends, but are working on expanding our friendship beyond that. Our conversation inevitably moved to the trauma of our lives. I ended up sharing one story that I’ve only told a handful of people. When I did, he told me that he knew immediately that was why I was having issues spending the night at someone’s house. After he and I parted ways, I shared the same story with my safe person that I marched with (the one I made the phone call to). He told me that he knew I was a victim of sexual violence, but didn’t want to pry. On Friday, I spent some time with the safe friend, his girlfriend, and another friend of ours. They convinced me to spend the night at the safe friend’s house so I could go do some construction work with the girlfriend and other friend in the morning. They seemed to think it would help. On the way to pick up my stuff, I told the other friend (who was giving me a ride to my house then to my safe friend’s house) the same story I’d told the first two friends on Thursday. They told me some of the ways that they did their healing and suggested a program for me to investigate to help work through what happened. If you’re not following, that’s three people in two days I told about this thing that happened. This morning, I woke up at my safe friend’s house and went to do the construction work. I lasted until noon before I had to say I was done and we all trooped home.

Four Years Ago (read at discretion)

Four years ago, I was living in an abusive situation. I was a live-in nanny for a family that did not have a healthy dynamic. They took advantage of me and my time. I was accused of not being honest about my experience and skills. I was manipulated into agreeing to stay multiple times when I tried to quit. I was so emotionally exhausted that there were several points that I broke down to tears in the middle of the day. As an escape, I rode my bike and I went to the local pub. In just 7.5 months of owning that bicycle, I put over 3,000km on it and wore the tires almost bare. I was a well-known regular at the pub and expected almost nightly from 7pm until 2 or 3 in the morning. I became friends with a very diverse group of people including a music producer, an engineer-turned-cook, and one of the local Italian Mob Bosses. I was also friends with some younger people who didn’t come nearly as regularly as I did.

One night, it was cold, icy, and I was tired and very drunk when the bar closed. I didn’t want to ride my bike home. A friend offered me somewhere to sleep for the night, said he’d take me to breakfast in the morning, then drop me off at the house I was working out of. I took him up on the offer and told him, very explicitly, “I’m not interested in doing anything, just sleep. I’m sleeping in my clothes.” He agreed that would be fine and we loaded up my bike and headed to his place.

When we got there, I realized we’d be sharing a bed. I’d been led to believe there was somewhere else for me to sleep, like a couch. Whatever, I’m adaptable. I reiterated that I wasn’t interested in anything but sleep and I was sleeping in my clothes. He wheedled and pleaded and eventually got me down to underwear and undershirt before we climbed under the covers. He asked if we could spoon and I agreed, though I wasn’t comfortable with it. He waited until I was almost asleep before he started working his hand under my shirt. I told him no, and pushed his hands away. He persisted. I asked him to stop, he persisted. I turned to tell him again, and he kissed me and stuck his hand in my underwear. He stripped me and had his way and then spooned me the rest of the night like this was an okay thing. In the morning, he woke me up to do it again. Then we got dressed and he took me to breakfast and dropped me off at the kids’ house like everything was all fine and grand.

And then he kept coming to the same bar and being friendly with me.

I kept telling myself that I should have known something like that would happen. That there’s a certain expectation when a man brings a woman to his home after a night at the bar. That I should have been more adamant in not taking off my outer clothes. That I should have just gone home instead of staying out that night.

It took two years of feeling negative feelings every time I saw one of his facebook posts to admit that it was rape. To admit that it wasn’t my fault. To admit that I was taken advantage of, assaulted. I told only three people initially. This weekend, two years later, I told three more. And now I’m telling, well, whoever reads this.

In my conversations this week, I’ve realized that a great many of my sexual/romantic relationships have had some level of abuse in them. My first two sexual partners coerced me into sex, convincing me it was something I wanted (which it was, just not with either of them). My second sexual partner (third romantic relationship of any level of seriousness) was emotionally abusive and manipulative and isolating. He played off my OCD to get me to do things and then made me feel horrible for not doing them perfectly. He slowly drew me away from my family and friends while not adding me to his own circles. My most recent romantic relationship had a certain level of coercion to it as well, to the point of twisting what I wanted into what he wanted when it came to my surgery (perhaps you remember my posts about that). When he asked for me back, I laid out certain things that could not be negotiated, that he had to agree to, that he had to accept, and he refused. One of them was that I am hard on the male side of binary, that I cannot be referred to with female pronouns/pet names, and that I need to be seen and treated as a guy. He told me that he didn’t know those things were hurtful (despite the fact that we’d talked about it the few times he did use them), and that he wasn’t gay and that he never saw me as either gender.

Finding Anxiety (mostly safer reading now)

Since Pride last weekend, I’ve realized what anxiety feels like. I’ve realized that I feel it every day. I’ve realized that it has a great many sources and there is a lot of work I need to do to bring myself back to a level of peace. I’ve also realized that I’ve lived with this daily anxiety for a very, very long time. I cannot pinpoint a single time when I have not had anxious tendencies, though some of them are certainly much worse now than they were 10 years ago when I was still in high school and before the sexual abuse.

I’ve been a compulsive picker (of scabs and skin) for as long as I can remember. My body is laddered with scars from picking and repicking my scabs and scars. I have had self-harm ideation for as long as I can remember. (This has never included suicide.) One of my earliest memories is of taking a hammer to my knee, purely to break it. I had a plan for how I would explain the injury to my parents. But I wasn’t strong enough to actually do any damage. I was 3 or 4 at the time. Since then, there have been many small successful self-harm attempts, but none needing more than a bandaid. I have had OCD manifesting in different ways since at least my preteen years. Washing the dishes was a very big problem for me for a long time (and one of my almost daily chores). There were needs to have things just right in order to actually do things, there still are. There was certain routines and rituals to using certain objects including the internet. There were obsessive tendencies to go through EVERYTHING of something (read a webcomic, beginning to end, even if it means staying up all night; read encyclopedias cover to cover, not just the entries of interest; sort through all of the photos in one location or all of the cards; look at all of the photos posted to a photo-sharing site, an impossible task that nearly broke me). There were needs to have things organized in a very specific manner (Dewy Decimal organization of my home library and, when I found it, my parent’s library).

In the last 10 years, I’ve added reluctance to engage in new situations or be in new spaces with new people. One new thing at a time, everything else must be familiar or I’m not okay with it. I have a reluctance to go over to other people’s houses, especially overnight. I’m less adaptable to any level of change unless it was rooted in something I control. And I have more obsessive thoughts circling around in my head.

Knowing what I know now about my mental-emotional state, I want to work towards finding a balance of some sort, finding some way to be at peace with my daily life. Knowing what anxiety feels like will allow me to know where my limits are and how far to stretch them. Having the friends I do around me will help me work through this in ways that are healthy, I hope.

Of Hospitals and Dosing


Last Wednesday, I decided to take myself to the hospital again.

Over the preceeding several days, I’d been having increasing paranoid type thoughts and increasing self harm thoughts. To be sure, the self harm thoughts weren’t new, but they were getting into the realm of encouraging me to do some serious damage including taking a knife to my arms and legs and slamming my head into the cement sidewalk and walking into traffic. I’ve self harmed in the past and know when I’m close to giving in to my thoughts and actually following through.

On Wednesday, I called my mom to ask her advice. She had none but to call the crisis line, which I did. They advised me to go to the hospital. I called my mom and told her that was going to happen on Thursday.

Thursday was my day off. I figured I could get up early and take myself, but as the night wore on, and the thoughts tumbled through my head, I knew I would harm if I went home. I asked my coworker, a friend of mine, if he’d be able to drive me to the hospital, on the other side of the city, after we closed the store. Amazing friend he is, he agreed to. (I don’t know what I did to get such great friends, but they’re awesome. I bought this one a craft beer he had his eye on the next time I saw him in thanks, since he refused gas money.) We stopped by my house and grabbed a few things (change my shirt, grab my meds and a soft cover book) and then drove to the hospital.

I checked in at midnight. It was a busy night, so I didn’t see the ER doctor until 5am. Since I hadn’t seen the ER doctor yet, they wouldn’t give me my meds, which meant I didn’t sleep. I stayed up the whole night just reading that soft cover book I thought to bring. The morning was entertaining as the other patients got up. I talked to a few of them and found out that most of them were waiting for beds in the long term ward. By 11 I saw the Psychiatrist.

She talked to me for a bit. Her assessment was that my dose was too low on the antipsychotics. They’re now adjusted permanently up to 2mg, at least for the time being. She seems to think that the dose was lowered too soon. She also put in a referral for me to general psych, as opposed to the emergency psych that I’d been referred to by my GP and had seen previously after the last time I was at the hospital. I think that general psych was where I was originally referred that took forever to look at my file and lead to me going to the hospital in the first place, but I could be wrong.

Time will tell, but, for now at least, I’m stable.

An Interesting Feeling


It’s an interesting feeling, knowing you want to hurt yourself. The act of hurting yourself is called self harm, and it’s not a new thought for me.

The first time I remember deliberately hurting myself was when I was four and decided to take a hammer to my knee. This wasn’t just a random thought. I took my dad’s hammer and brought it to my bedroom. I sat on the top bunk of the bed and started trying to hammer my kneecap. I intended to break it, hide the hammer, and fall off the bed, blaming the break on the fall. When I couldn’t break my knee after trying for a while, I started crying, composed myself, returned the hammer, and pretended like nothing happened. I blamed the bruise that showed up later on falling during play.

That was the first time, and I’ve hurt myself many times since, always in such a way I could blame it on something else. During middle and high school, I used my pocket knife to cut. I’d always cut in such a way to make it look like a cat scratch. I got enough of those anyway that it was a normal enough cut for me to have. I haven’t actually cut for over three years and two years ago, when I was packing for a move, I tossed the knife I used as a statement that I wouldn’t cut anymore.

I never really tried to hurt myself like I did when I was four, break a bone. There were a few times I came close, but never followed through.

The only other self harm I’ve done is chronically scratched, picked my scabs. I’m covered in scars from doing this. Head to toe. I don’t remember ever not picking scabs. It got to the point that when I was eight, I could tell what kind of scab would bleed and what kind was far enough healing that it wouldn’t bleed if I picked it.

There’s four stages to self harm: desire, plan, motivation, action.

Right now, I have three plans for hurting myself. 1: Slam my head on the coffee table. 2: “Trust fall” onto the coffee table, landing on my back. 3: Standing close enough to the curb that the bus mirror hits my head (pick any bus stop downtown).

What’s stopping me is my lack of motivation. Well, I’m motivated enough to do it, but I’m stopped by external obligations. Classes are about to start and I’ll set myself back if I have to miss any. My coworkers would have to pick up my slack at work and if I were gone for any length of time, my boss would hire someone new. I need all the hours I can get at work just to pay rent. My cat would need someone to take care of her. And I’ll miss my doctor’s appointments: psychologist this Thursday and GP next Thursday.

I can’t tell you why I want to hurt myself. I explained the cutting (to those who knew) as wanting to feel, but that’s a lie; I feel well enough. I’m not depressed, sad, upset, angry, scared. (Okay, right now I’m a little scared, but I think that’s separate. I’m scared about what’s going on with the hallucinations and what they mean for my future.) I don’t want to end my life. I guess on a certain level, it’s curiosity, but that’s still not why.

In my world, self harm is just another feeling, like hot or cold or giggly or sad.

It’s an interesting feeling, knowing you want to hurt yourself, knowing you have a plan to hurt yourself. I don’t like the feeling and I wish it would go away, but hey, it’s there, so I’ve just got to accept it, right?

In other news, I’ve been recently wondering what it would take for me to get admitted to the hospital for a stay in the psych ward. I’ve thought about calling the crisis line and asking, but I’m not sure I want to know the answer. I also don’t want to be admitted for the same reasons I don’t want to harm myself. I feel like if I were admitted, though, I’d get some answers faster than just waiting around for them and going to regular appointments. We’ll see, though. Next appointment is Thursday.