I’m scared about going back to the house this evening. I don’t feel good at the moment, my head is in a bad place, and I don’t feel safe with myself. I had strong urges to cut last night, and I’m pretty sure I would have done if I was in my own house. Thank goodness I have a least a little respect for other people, as I would never be able to do that to someone who had invited me to stay.
The only other persons house I have self harmed in is Jon, who is a friend and was my dog trainer. I guess I got to the point I was so desperate that even my fear of being disrespectful was overcome.
It was the morning before my first ‘novice’ working test with my dog (it’s a higher level of competition that I was used to at that point). I remember it clearly, sitting in the bath with a new Stanley knife blade I found lying around, carving the word ‘failure’ into my left thigh.
I am starting to understand why we cut words into ourselves. It is a brand, a label of how we feel about ourselves.
As it happens, on that day, I wasn’t a failure, but have been many, many times since. The word is pretty faded now but you can still make out the fine white line in the right light – the same with the words ‘ugly’, ‘fat’, ‘worthless’ and ‘flawed’ scattered around different parts of my body.
Despite not getting on so great with my dog today, I am enjoying the company. Everyone is lovely to me, they speak to me, they hug me when I first see them. If only they knew I was wishing I didn’t have to go through this charade, if there was an easy way to end this.
I know I don’t want to die. I don’t want to hurt the people around me, I don’t want to force the responsibility of my dogs on to someone else and I don’t want to miss out on the wonderful things life has yet to show me. But I know I can’t carry on like this. First thing on Monday I will go down the local doctor and register with them, and book an appointment to discuss getting me some dialectical behaviour therapy.
Maybe the hope of getting better will keep me safe this week. Xxx