Sunday, October 14, 2012

Sharp instruments…

Unless they are for food, you cannot show them to me.  Immediately my brain goes to thoughts of cutting.  It’s irrational; it’s absurd; it’s OCD and bipolar of me.

It’s not necessarily that I WANT to cut, it’s that the IDEA of cutting is lodged in my head the rest of the day.  I can’t stop thinking about how it feels and what it looks like.  And my gut gets all twisted and I want to cry, but I STILL can’t stop thinking about it.

It helps that I have a four-inch scar on my thigh.  I can tame things a little by thinking about how awful the night was when cutting finally sent me to the ER.  I never want to feel the way I did on that exam table, with my sister crying in one of those stupid chairs and the doctor trying to help me by telling me it’s a first-world problem.  I just lay there feeling broken and wrong; I don’t want to feel that way again.

The thoughts still come, but I can CBT them a little by thinking about my thigh.

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