I’ve had a pretty rough week. I feel like I’m whining, but I have to have some kind of outlet for my . I thought my life was the hardest it could be before I went to . I hoped that after leaving the hospital everything would magically be okay. I wanted that to happen so badly. I thought if I made myself believe that everything would okay then it would be. Unfortunately, few things are as simple as we would like them to be.

The truth is that life was pretty simple when I was discharged. I had learned so much and I was so determined to get better. I thought I had finally learned how to fix myself and I didn’t even give a second thought to how life would really be. I thought I was making so much progress, but I’m not so sure now. I’m really confused.

There are very stressful things burdening me: I have 6 days to find a house, pack and move; I’m having financial difficulties due to the time I was off , among other things; and I haven’t even started doing the for my algebra class which ends in about five weeks.

About half an hour ago, I was lying in bed thinking about the things that are stressing me out. I was trying to find solutions, but there aren’t any simple ways to resolve my concerns, problems, or issues. I began getting discouraged because I let things get to this point. A short while later I started blaming, chastising, and berating myself – just like the good ol’ days. Before I knew it I had an urgent need to feel pain and see blood trickling down my legs. The yearning filled me completely – I was paralyzed with it.

In the past, I would have immediately filled that need. My inner voice forbade it and demanded that I suppress the desire by thinking about something else. I tried, but that plan failed when I saw a razorblade on my nightstand shelf – it seemed to appear out of nowhere and it instantly captivated me. It was the blade from New Year’s Eve. It called out to me. I couldn’t take my eyes from it and I ached to reach for it. I needed to feel my flesh split beneath its cool touch, followed by sweet liquid warmth and finally repose.

My heart was pounding so hard I felt it in my ears. My inner voice kept trying to divert my attention from the blade, but it was getting weaker with each passing second because the other voice – the internal voice that taught me to hate myself so many years ago – was drowning it out. This malevolent voice was goading me to pick up the razorblade and cut myself. It reminded me of the tranquility the blade would bring. I wanted to give in because I knew it would make me feel better.

The internal conflict gripped me.

The voice of reason had not quite given up, it said: the relief will only be temporary; you have come too far to give up now; you HAVE made so much progress; if you give in to the urge you will be ashamed of yourself – it will perpetuate the self-loathing you have been trying so diligently to overcome; your acquiescence to that desire will result in little more than disappointment – it will disappoint you, as well as the people that care about you; it will be so difficult to tell your therapists or anyone else that you relapsed – you will have to tell them, you know your conscience will not let you lie about it.

The voice of self-hatred said, “I don’t have to tell anyone – withholding isn’t the same as lying. I could hide it like I used to – no one would have to know. It would be my little secret.”

The voice of reason reminded me that it would be really hard to hide any cuts because and . The other voice was starting to lose its hold, so it compromised. It wanted me to bloodlet instead.

The malevolent inner voice chided me. It said, “I’m not getting better – I’m just pretending; I can never change; I am going to fail eventually so I should just accept it and give in now; I will never be free; I deserve to suffer – I want to suffer; I am bad and need to be punished. Bloodletting will give me some relief, not as much as cutting, but it will suffice. Even temporarily relief is still relief. I need to bleed, hurry.”

The voice of reason did not interject. In fact, it was speechless. At that point, I sat up and was about to reach under my bed for the needle and blood-rag.

In a final attempt, my inner voice pleaded, “leave the room. Go write or do something, anything, that will provide a distraction. Go now, while you still can.”

Before I could yield to the other voice I was in the living room and away from temptation. The battle isn’t over yet. That is why I am sitting here writing as fast a my fingers can move. If I keep busy the bloodthirsty urgings will subside. They have to.

I’m starting to wonder if I don’t let the build on purpose, maybe I get something out of it. I’m not sure. I just want some peace. I have to stop pretending that everything is okay. I have to stop reverting back to my old habits.

On this day..