I wrote this last night... I was having a very bad time. I needed the release. 11.30pm May 9th 2011 I'm hurting and screaming and begging for a release. I promised myself I wouldn't cut again, I can't break this promise. I don't want to hurt others more than I already have. My cutting upsets the people I value the most. But I had to do SOMETHING, so i've taken a few pills, just to take the edge off. Just to relax. Not as a suicide attempt, but to be numb. The combinations of these pills, my sleeping tablets and vodka is making me so numb. I'm calming down, i'm feeling nothing. I'm not thinking and i'm not hearing. So far, so good. I frequently feel suicidal, but I guess i'm too much of a chicken to do anything about it. I'm actively suicidal most of the time now, but I do my best to put up a facade, to pretend that i'm okay for the sake of everyone around me. I need to get out of this cycle, I either need to end it all or get the fuck over it. I need to do something more productive than wallowing in my own self pity. I need to grow the fuck up and forget about everything. They no longer need to exist or haunt my memories, I should learn from these experiences. I need to let go... I need to forget the horrific things he did to me, the way he took my innocence and scarred me for life. He doesn't deserve to be in my thoughts – let alone be controlling most of my life – the thoughts of wanting to end it all mainly stem from his abusive nature. I feel broken, damaged and useless because of him. I don't deserve happiness or love, i'm a broken doll. * * * 12.45am May 10th 2011 I now have at least 100 beautiful cuts marking my horrific body. These have all added to my testimony which I am engraving on my skin. The blood is on everything, tissues, wipes, my hands and face, my arms and stomach, my bed covers and the back pages of my sketch book. More blood is slowly oozing out of the cuts as I write this. I completely lost track of time and have spent the last hour decorating this body in the only way I know. In cuts and bruises and crimson red blood stains. X shaped cuts extend the length of my right forearm. So beautiful in my pathetic downfall. The smell of blood fills my nostrils, I can taste it in every breath I take. This combination is better than any drug or substance I have ever used. This is better than vodka, which is my poison of choice, but vodka comes a close second to the euphoria of the blood and the pain of the cut. I used to despise the pain, only making small scratches, just enough to see the blood. But now I love the pain as much as the blood, but the pain lasts so much longer. Every movement the day after gives me a rush deep within. I crave this now just to feel alive... Every cut and ever scar adds a beauty I cannot put into words. Slicing my skin lets the beauty within seep out with the blood to leave an everlasting mark on my pasty skin. Every mark on my skin speaks the words stuck inside, the words I can't seem articulate to anyone, the muffled screams caught at the back of my throat, just begging to be let out, to be heads. I simply cannot allow this to happen, so I will continue my plight in the only manner I know... with the blade. I'm an addict, a junkie. Addicted to the delicious thrill of the blade, longing for it, constantly thinking about when I will next slice my skin open. I will not stop until I am happy with the way I am. When I am truly happy with myself will be the day that I put down the blade. I will be happy being me, not relying on the safety and the comfort of the blade. The thrill of hiding my mutilation from the world.