I miss my days of self harm. It sounds idiotic. What kind of idiot am I? But this is a confession website, and I intend to confess.

I would sit on my bed, my eyes bloodshot, a cup of tea in one hand and a box cutting blade in the other, just slicing up my legs until they were covered in thin, stinging cuts. Then, I’d take rubbing alcohol and rub it into the cuts until I felt dizzy. Then I would lay down and wait until the stinging subsided, wash and cover my legs with polysporin to ward off infection. There was too much surface area to even bother bandaging, so the healing cuts would rub against the inside of my jeans til they were raw. If you touched my thighs they would be several degrees hotter than the rest of my body. If I was having a bad moment I would dig my nails into my leg and drag them down, sending the stinging sensation through my body like waves. I would walk to the store at 10 at night to buy new blades with an Arizona green tea can filled partially with gin and go sit at the top of the hill in a little alcove surrounded by trees, watching the city lights and trying to convince myself to throw myself down the hill into the busy road for hours. I just sat there in complete silence. Completely alone and unseen. Sometimes if draw. Sometimes I’d just listen to soothing music (I mean actually soothing music not f****** s***** emo crap). I would go home, cut myself some more, watch infomercials for 3 hours and then walk to the store, buy some more green tea and a bit of lunch and stay there for the day, seeking out secluded areas to cut myself (I never did manage to convince myself to cut at the park) and I’d sit by the riverside trying to catch minnows so I could have pet fish. And then I would go home and sleep for a few hours, wake up around 9pm and look at all of the boxes and the mess of my house and completely ignore it. The moving date was approaching but I didn’t have the will power to make myself pack. So instead I would go back to bed and wake up at 2am and go to Tim hortons for some coffee.

I didnt think much during those days. What I did think was written down on paper. I think that’s what I miss about them. There’s some sort of shroud of mystery and appeal around that time period. It’s like I was happy then. I know I wasn’t because I still wanted to kill myself and my writing describes a bunch of ways to do it. Plans and reasons and apologies. I still cried for hours when I was alone. I wrote 10-page suicide notes outlining a number of things. I never did it though. I never went past cutting. I just kept on moving along, coping and falling into some sort of rabbit hole. I don’t know how to describe it really. It’s like a montage scene in a movie. It’s like I was experiencing it all from someone else’s perspective. I don’t know. I was just loopy then I guess . I miss that dazed state. It’s so much better than this.