Tore my arm up a bit with a fresh razorblade tonight. Blood was running down my arm in several places, dripping pleasantly on the hardwood floor. More droplets than I think I've ever dripped there before. I did a whole bunch of cuts, very quick slices with some pressure, enough to make the seams come open and really bleed. That's what I wanted -- needed. Wanted to see proof that I am, for now, truly harming myself enough.
I pulled back on the bulimia enough to try and have a semi-clear head for my psych test; but I haven't got a really important test for a good while, so I don't fucking care right now. I b/ped once earlier tonight, and then -- funny enough -- went to a screening of a film for eating disorders awareness week, with a discussion panel of eating disorder experts afterwards. I was hungry when I was there, and sort of hungry when I got home, but I am not putting even MORE unnecessary food into this stupid body.
Odd, isn't it, that all the ED awareness week stuff has just served to motivate me even further to self-destruct? Maybe because they only take you seriously if you're actually doing serious, deliberate, cruel damage to yourself. Maybe because I still really, truly believe I deserve every bit of it. I take a sadistic pleasure in it (and I do mean sadistic, not masochistic). Maybe I can bring myself to semi enjoy the pain, but I much more enjoy being the inflictor of it. Only upon myself, of course; but that lessens none of the pleasure.
I am totally, hideously fucked up. I know. You really don't have to tell me.
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