Last time I put blade to skin was after Tera told me she was depressed and possibly suicidal. She sort of implied that it was my fault, and of course I took it to heart.
I wanted to kill myself. I thought that if I killed myself she would get better, and that she would love me again. So that's what happened to my right forearm––the left was for every other fuckup I'd performed. This right-arm gash was deep, and wide, and straight up-and-down, but it didn't go nearly deep enough and it hurt so fucking bad that I couldn't do any more.
My mom pretended to believe me (or perhaps refused to see the truth herself, although she knows what incisions look like 'cause she's a nurse) when I told her I had fallen off my bike and gashed my arm on a rock.
Later, I wrote: "I failed everyone, especially her, and if I could take everything back, if it would help in any way, I never would have fallen in love with Stephanie, I wouldn't have gotten all suicidal, I wouldn't have started smoking weed, I would've fixed myself so I could help someone else. Because whatever happens to her now is my fault. I was busy being addicted to myself while she spent all her time trying to save me and forgetting herself. And now, she's not suicidal––"not yet," in her words––but we all know a) how long that lasts, and b) how truthful someone in her position is about things like that. Or at least I know."
Fuck her. Fuck everyone.
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