If God were to tell you he doesn't like you, how would you know? I know. He pretty much screamed it at me. And now, after taking those hits of his, blow after blow, I've given up. I will gladly let him win. I'll let my own self win, too. I don't care about cutting anymore. I'm not going to suppress it no longer. I am not going to hold back and keep everything in like I've been doing. I will cut. And in doing so, I shall cut to my bleeding hearts content. If Mark breaks up with me for it, I will cut some more. I need an outlet, but when I try to relieve myself to others, they become angry, telling me I'm a pushover and I'm never going to get anywhere in life because I think so lowly of myself. Like they care. But they don't. The entire world is selfish, and couldn't give a damn less about me. They only act like they care when they wish themselves to impress others. I'm a hopeless case. No money for a therapist, a psychiatrist, or psychologist. They don't care anyway. They sit and pretend to listen because they draw in a paycheck consisting of multitudes of our tax money and hard-earned cash. Even if my Medicaid were to pay for therapy, who's to say the quack will listen anyway? I'm being stupid about all of this, but no better shall come of keeping it inside of me. I tell Mark what's going on inside my head and the first words to come out of his mouth were, "You gotta learn to just deal with it." I've been dealing for eighteen years. The best I can, anyway. But it's all worn on me, and I'm tired of it all. I'm giving in to my urges. And in doing so, I'm about to lose the rest of everything I love.