Memories. (like the corners of my mind)

Why can’t I seem to post on a regular basis? Man, do I have to get a grip on that.

Anyhow, pretty regular weekend. A friend of mine came over from my home town and we got out on Saturday nite and I drank like there’s no tomorrow- also ate quite a few carbs that always seem to find their way down my throat when I’m drunk.

Then Sunday I managed to keep it as usual.

Monday was totally depressing. I cut. Again.

I started when I was 16 and went on for 4 years more or less. 

Then I gave myself a cut so bad it needed stitches. I had to call my parents (it was night) while dripping blood on the floor. I had my wrist open, the cut was an inch and a half wide. And I really didn’t want to hurt myself that much. It was a mere mistake. I was reading and dragging the blade on my skin, then I figured I could do a slash motion and when I turned I saw a fucking crack on my arm four fingers wide. Fuck, I thought. Then blood started dripping like teardrops on the floor and I started panicking.

Then all the routine, hospital, doctors asking how did I do it and so forth. 
When I entered the ER this male nurse started asking me the usual questions, my name, age, where I lived, and how the heck it happened. I stood silent for five seconds.
I was ashamed and afraid. I  hoped they wouldn't send me to the psych ward.
So I told him it was confidential. He glared back to the paper where he was writing down all the details and his pen froze halfway between the self inflicted and the accidental boxes.

He eventually ticked the accidental one.

Figuring that that one act of humanity saved me from all the shite that would come next (psych ward, more meds, incompetent psychiatrists and so on) I realized I had to stop. 
I didn’t want to live my life like that. Between hospitals, on meds, wasting time and all my energies. So I quit.

And stood clear of it for eight goddamn years.

Then, last summer I did it again.

With a different perspective: I had the right to do it. I had  been thinking about it, talking about it (in therapy) and studying it (I have a degree in psychology) but I came to the conclusion that it was (is) my right to do it. Very clear, no drama about it. Just I am an adult and have all the means to decide how to handle my life and how to cope with problems. That’s just my way. Therapy can make me feel less hopeless and can give me an idea of a way out, but if at some point I decide to kill myself, that’s just my choice. I am smart, adult and wise.

Writing these things down is either a mistake or a really arguable idea. I hope my words will not trigger or touch anyone too much. It’s just ramblings, nothing more.