I am doing much better than I was last weekend. My arm is healing already. The knife wounds are deep, and I realize that they will leave scars, to trouble me and remind me of that other version of myself for the rest of my life, probably. I still cannot shake the memory of the sick pleasure of cutting flesh. It still bothers me immensely. What if flesh other than my own arm had been available, as in, another person? Would I have done it? I can’t say, and the thought keeps me awake. I truly believed in that moment that I was doing something good. At least this time there were no voices involved.
Just a frightening delusion.
My sister asked me yesterday if I was capable of harming her. I told her no, no, of course I would never. I don’t think she believed me.
I see my psychologist tomorrow. She will decide if I represent a “threat to myself or others,” as they say. I’ll admit, I’m nervous. I can’t go back to the mental ward, not now, not this close to the end of the school year. I just want to finish with my classes. Then they can send me wherever. I still remember the words of my friend, that I have to prioritize. But I’d hate to ruin an entire school year’s worth of work. It would drive me crazy… well, crazier?
I have got to learn how to manage episodes like theses. Clinical psychologists should be among the most stable of people–their job requires them to be. If I want to learn to help people manage their disorders, I should first learn to manage my own.
Easier said than done, I guess.