Well, damn. While I was writing the previous post, I was proud of myself for going two weeks without cutting. The day after I wrote that, I did it again. I was upset because of a number of different things. The cutting in itself ticked off my husband, who assumed I did it because I was upset about not being able to see the other guy I’m interested in. Sure, that was disappointing and I didn’t take that news easily, but it wasn’t something worth cutting myself over. No, I was cutting over my husband, who is hostile lately and I’m sick of it. That combined with being overtired from working and stressed out about graduate school stuff, I just got fed up and cried over it all. I’m wondering, though, if this time will smarten me up about it. I cut my arm, which is noticeable, out of who knows what motivation. I cut too deep. The first cut I made bled for what felt like forever. It honestly scared me. Not only did the blood scare me, but then the idea of trying to hide it from everyone at dance class was terrifying. Some of my friends are very intuitive, and I don’t know how much longer the lies about where I get these injuries are going to hold up. I find that long sleeves in a summer dance class are equally as likely to draw inquiries. I was right, about that. People asked about the bandage. I lied about it, but people let it go. The cuts are fading now, but I’m almost certain that at least the first one will leave a thin scar. I’m starting the count over again, and trying harder this time. That was Monday, this is Sunday morning, so it’s been 6 days.
