Yoga breathing out the door.

When I first starting cutting at age 15, I knew nothing about the subject.  I went to the local Barnes and Noble, and immersed myself in the Self-Help section, only to find rows of books about alcohol and drug addiction, and eating disorders.  There was ONE book about self-harm, and it was written from a medical standpoint.  SERIOUSLY?  Wasn't there anyone else who had gone through a similar struggle?  Was I alone?  Even in the mentally fucked up section, I felt ostracized, and lacking support.  If ever I made it past college, past the age of 25, I vowed to write about the chaos of this terrible illness-- sick feelings I wish upon no one.  This is a raw excerpt from my journal from 2014 during an emotional breakdown.  I hope to bring insight into the mind of a cutter, and to let others suffering from similar troubles know they are not alone. 

Warning: graphic. 

I just feel so fucking sad.  I'm crying for the first time in awhile.  Actually crying.  I know I needed a good cry.  Nothing is particularly wrong in my life, but the culmination of many irks added up today.  Exposure.  Angry frustrated hot tears run down my face, and for the first time in a long time I feel like cutting.  I crave the release.  I can taste it on my skin.  I need to.  I want to.  I want to feel the bite of the needle when it first punctures the skin's surface and feel its sting as it drags along my arm, tearing through the flesh.  My hearts thumps loudly and I can feel it bursting in my chest.  Yoga breathing out the door.  When it's over the feel is almost post orgasmic.  It's as if someone has injected me with the best drug in the world and for a moment, real time, maximum 5 minutes I actually feel free.  Soon after the comedown starts and you start to feel guilty about doing it in the first place.  You get angry at yourself again.  Frustration ensues. The whole process starts over again.  I am figuratively fucking myself to the point of release using a safety pin to penetrate my body.