#heavytopics

I want to slit my wrists. I'm not suicidal. My reasoning is purely superficial. Would it hurt? Rationally thinking, I know it would. So why am I curious? Why do I want to feel the blade pressing against and sinking into my skin, slowly piercing and pulling apart the layers as the blood wells up and pools from my flesh. Why do I want to watch the blood pool and drip? Why am I so mesmerized by the way it streaks across my pale skin, how it stains everything it touches. I want to watch it flow. I want to drag the blade across my arms, my thighs, my stomach, my chest. Anywhere I can reach, anywhere I can do it so long as I can watch the blood spill. I wanna see it drip and stain my underwear and bra. I want to see my skin covered in it. And despite the fact that it may sound it, I assure you, this isn't sexual or because I'm suicidal. I simply want to feel it. I want to feel the knife slicing through my flesh the same way that freshly sharpened scissors so effortlessly slice through paper. I want to relish in the empty, hazy sort of feeling that comes after. I know this isn't normal. But I find solace in it. I find solace and comfort in feeling the stinging of the blade, and then feeling my chest fill with that familiar emptiness afterwards. I miss it. Hell, I crave it. I know it's not normal. But frankly, I don't think I care. I know there's healthier ways to achieve that empty feeling, that comforting silence that seems to envelop me completely..but I don't have anyone to give myself over to. I don't have anyone to lean against, to rest on and simply exist by. I have friends, sure. Of course I do. They're my everything, but I can't let myself just exist by them. They need me as more than just simple flesh and bones. Realistically, I know this is my medicine speaking, I know this is me coming off of my concerta, I know I'll wake up in the morning and won't even think about this. I'll wake up, look at this and think to myself about the fact that I was overreacting or being dramatic. I'll sit in my bed, quilt covering my legs and head tucked against the pillows and blankets as I silently read my own words over and over again, silently psychoanalyzing as if I were my own therapist. In the end, I'll chalk it up to nothing more than readjusting to my medicine. Even if, realistically, I know that's not the truth.