Excerpt from Life Sucks...but it's okay 3/28/99 I went to the party tonight, but I didn't stay very long at all because it was really hot and crowded, and Gale was busy looking after some girl that was puking. So I left and went to my friend Dennis' place for a while, and we just hung out listening to music with his friend Price until 7:00 in the morning. Then Price walked me home in the pouring rain. He kissed me on the front step and obviously waited for an invitation to come in, but I needed to sleep so I sent him home. It was nice, though. He was very comfortable. We must have been at Dennis' for at least three or four hours, and Price had his arm around me the whole time. It's just so nice to feel protected sometimes. I went up to my room, slept for six hours, made some oatmeal and cappuccino, and then something very strange happened. I didn't feel like getting a shower or anything, so I pulled out all of my pictures and started looking through them. I got to thinking about people I haven't seen in four, five, or ten years, and how much I've changed since then. I'm a different person than I used to be. I can feel myself becoming more and more of what I struggled through in high school. I really, really need to see a psychiatrist. I don't really feel very clear about what I was thinking next, but I got up, pulled out my Spyderco, and fucking raked it across my left forearm. I was both surprised and pleased that it cut deeper than I meant it to. I stopped to watch it bleed for a moment and quickly realized it was bleeding faster than usual. I got a paper towel and went into the bathroom to wash it off, but I didn't know what to do. It started gushing blood, and it started dripping onto the floor and everything. I wasn't sure if this was right, but for some reason I thought cold water might help, so I ran my arm under cold water in the sink for a minute. Then I grabbed a few more paper towels and pressed them up against it while I collapsed onto the floor in the middle of my room and started shaking uncontrollably. I was on my knees with my head and hands on the floor in front of my knees, and I was heaving with the task of breathing and screaming as though I was sobbing even though I never shed a tear. I couldn't move. I couldn't see straight. I couldn't breathe. I curled up into a little ball and kept shaking, and shaking, and noticing how weak and frail I felt. I felt like if someone had poked me it would have shattered every bone in my body. I tried to stand up a few times, but I couldn't. I looked in the mirror and couldn't tell it was me. I actually thought, "Who is that? And if that's not me, where am I?" I kept looking at the wound on my arm under the blood-soaked paper towels, wondering how I cut my arm without even being able to feel it. Generally, when I cut myself, I'm in a sort of quiet rage where I'm momentarily blinded and convinced that I like what is going on. But today, I cut myself in that blindness and came out of it too soon. The idea that I cut my arm so deep while completely aware of what's going on, and without being able to feel it, scared me. It's like I'm two different people: the one that cuts herself and the one that doesn't understand it. Today, the one that doesn't understand it woke up prematurely and thought, "What the fuck is wrong with this girl that she wants to see blood pouring out of her own body?" And I was even more scared to recognize that I don't really have any control over whether I cut myself or not. Most of the time it's not a conscious decision. Sometimes it is, but usually it's not. I keep picturing myself slitting my wrists while temporarily blinded in that state, and then suddenly realizing what's going on. Can you imagine how much that would suck? Slitting your wrists and then suddenly realizing that you didn't mean to? I am so scared. I am scared of myself. I'm losing control. All I want to do is tell someone and let them hold me, and cry for me, and understand how severe what I am feeling really is. Every time I write something, I go back and read over it and don't remember writing it. A lot of times I can't believe that I actually wrote it. I feel like life is just entirely too much for me to handle, and I don't even know why. Today I was in a perfectly good mood, and then I was collapsed and shaking on the floor. I tried to call people, but no one was home. I finally ended up calling Mom, but I couldn't bring myself to tell her what really happened. She doesn't need that right now. Read more.