i want to have control.
i want a perfect body, i want a perfect soul.
-creep.

Some days you have that one thing that just keeps popping up in your daily routine. That one thing that forces its way in your head and reminds you of something you'd much rather not remember. In October I cut myself pretty bad. Maybe not bad. But bad for me, worse than I ever had before. And yesterday, in the evening, it seemed like everything reminded me of it. Songs mainly. "Some nights the blood from real cuts, feels real nice, when it's really mine" "when you asked for blood i cut my veins, and when you wanted love i bled myself again" just everything. Oh yeah and when your friend you're talking to randomly mentions, I taste blood, mmm it tastes good. And in that moment I imagined the last night I did it. And it's so vivid, I'm not sure if it's a memory, it's mainly a recreation of what I know happened. I can see it so clearly in my head. Sitting in my chair hunched over. And I remember sliding it across my arm and feeling it sting and then I couldn't stop. I did it again, and again, and again. And I remember telling myself in my head, stop, stop, you have to stop it's going to scar, stop it! And eventually I did. I rested my arm on my leg and moved the garbage can underneath my arm and let it all drip down into it. I watched it. Sometimes I just like to hear the sound of it dripping in the garbage, the tickle of it against my skin, the warmth of it flowing out. And I look down and I see my hand covered in it, my fingers gooed with blood. It started to dry. Clumps started to form, and the cut started to plug up with blood. The trail left on my arm was dried, started to crust. I was listening to music at the time, so I remember somehow blood got on my keyboard. It was on my desk. It dripped on my pants. There were trails alongside my garbage can. Wadded up tissues were on top. I always cut before I sleep. So I put a couple bandaids on and I remember thinking before I went to bed, I really should dump the garbage can in case my mom decides to dump it. Everything was just on top. There were just puddles of blood on top and on the sides and on the tissues. But I didn't. And the next day.....when I was up.....the garbage can was empty.
I panicked. Probably the last thing I ever want my parents to ever know about me is that I've cut myself. And that I've been doing it for a couple years. It would kill them, and they have enough stress as it is. I thought of an excuse though. I also thought there was a possibility she hadn't seen it, it's very dark under my desk. But she did. Because a week later in the car she asked me, have you been having bloody noses? and I said no. Then I remembered the garabage can. And said yes, I had one last week. And she believed me. I was so relieved. I knew my parents would never think that I would do something so destructive. Ever. I'm the good kid. In their eyes, I'm pure. And whether from fear of being caught or wanting to end the torment I was putting myself through, I quit. For now. A part of me believes it's inevitable that I'll do it again. But quite honestly I haven't had any urges. There have been a couple moments I thought I would go crazy. I was highly emotional in anger, or sadness. But I didn't even think about cutting. I rode it out. It passed. And I think now, that if I can get through those intense moments, then I can get through practically anything. But it's pretty often I'm reminded of what I've done. It stands out on my arm. I hate wearing short sleeves, and when I do, it's with a slight bend in my left elbow so that it's hidden. I don't even realize I do it anymore. And I often find myself sitting there tracing over the scar I made. The scar tissue has started to heal over. It's not so noticeable. It does sound worse than it seems though. It wasn't that deep, just wide, discolored. It's dark red scar tissue. Sometimes I find myself staring at it.
Occasionally these thoughts come back to me. And after I recreated it in my mind I wanted to remember it. It was such a beautifully awful scene.
I'm not depressed. I'm quite good. But the memory is embedded in my mind. I don't have to try to resist the urges anymore. They hardly exist.