On the off chance anyone ever sees any of this,

You might be wondering if I'm actually aware of what I'm doing. What I'm writing.

If. I'm, aware of how fucked up it is. And find the question of actual benefit to my mental health as suspect as you likely do.

The answer is yes. So why am i doing it anyway. well.

Back when my mother was still alive. And I was still in school, in the attempt at it before I dropped out because of her death and had to come back seven years later.

Maybe my junior year? Sophomore year? I was living with her. Instead of on campus. I think. Maybe it was over the holidays, i don't know.

I don't even remember what was wrong. She was mad at me. she, had some anger issues. Or maybe i was just that much of a piece of shit.

look no one's perfect. I loved her more than anything. she loved me more than anything. we were each other's reason to live. each other's everything. and she was my savior. she,

She saved me from him. You know who i'm talking about by the time you read this.

but no one's perfect.

So.

i don't even remember what the fuck i did but she was mad at me and she'd just got through yelling and screaming at me, and was in her room, in bed, sobbing.

because of her stupid piece of garbage offspring who's selfish and horrible and can't do anything right and should just go fuckign die.

She didn't say that part. She would never ever ever say that. But it was what i was feeling about myself.

I was hiding out in the kitchen. I wanted to cry too but i couldn't. The tears wouldn't come. And then my gaze wandered to the kitchen knives.

I took one and.

Started,

cutting up my arm.

just shallow wounds. I was too cowardly to want to do any real damage. i just wanted,

what did I want?

something inside me that i wasn't proud of wanted to make her regret yelling at me.

another part of me just. wanted to feel something. anything.

some of me really did want to die. it was only the rest that was too cowardly. so they compromised and this was the compromise.

and some of me wanted to punish myself for how i'd hurt her,

and some of me wanted to punish myself for,

well, you know, that. the whole. complex. about my body. i wanted to punish myself for having this body. i wanted to punish myself for being fat. i wanted to punish myself for having been raped.

i wanted to, damage. that body. that body that wouldn't stop having needs, that were always contrary to what i wanted to be, what i wanted to become. contrary to "beauty," to "purity," to "worthiness." contrary to washing away the stain that would never come out. If i can be frank with you, contrary to washing away his fucking cum that i could still feel swimming around under my skin every time i ate anything.

i. guess i was, just. so. sick of it all.

I was still at it when she'd calmed down. she walked in on me. and panicked. and came and tore the knife from my hand.

yelled at me again. understandably.

asking me why i would do this to myself. to her baby.

suddenly i didn't want to make her regret it anymore. I was suddenly very scared of making her regret it. Maybe it was seeing her face in front of me again, but i was suddenly unable to bear the thought that she might think this was her fault.

So i frantically started trying to take the blame upon myself. Telling her, i'm sorry, i'm sorry, i'm sorry, it's not real, it's my fault, I was trying to make her feel bad yes, but that's because I'm the bad one, I'm not really suffering like this I promise, it's not real, it's—

and she said the fuck do you mean it's not real.

Did you cut yourself or didn't you.

How is that not real.

Is that or is that not real blood.

and.

I was at a loss for words.

I didn't have an answer.

So why am i doing this now?

Why am I writing these sick and warped reflections, of dubious value to my recovery process, unsure whether I'm processing trauma through them or just relitigating it?

Because.

This is the knife this time.

I don't know why I'm letting myself do this, entirely consciously, entirely on purpose. Fully able to stop if i had to.

But what i do know is the words I'm writing are real.

These are my actual truths. truths I've hidden and denied and ignored. and. i guess it was just time to finally speak them.

I should clarify the typo's in particular aren't fully intentional. What happens is I get so upset about what I'm writing that i just miss some keys or press them out of order. and, realizing it reflects my feelings as i'm writing, i just leave them.

Actually the entire documents aren't exactly fully intentional either. It's what you call stream of consciousness. It's true i put the words to the page on purpose, but they come to mind on accident. Which is, again. Because They Are Fucking Real. And I'm Sick And Tired Of Doubting That.