I've not been doing well lately and it didn't seem like my meds were doing much so when one of them (lithium) ran out two weeks early (prescription error), I just quit taking it. Two weeks later, I missed my appointments with my doc and therapist where I was going to figure it out. Jump another two weeks and here I sit in the aftermath of a fit with ten cuts on my arm. I am kinda phobic about making/answering phone calls which is why I still haven't rescheduled with my doctors. Yes, I know how stupid that sounds but just the thought of it sends me reeling into a panic attack. Staring at the cuts on my was enough to help me make the call but all I get is an automated message because, oh yeah, it's fucking Saturday! I downed my anti anxiety meds and all the other stuff I do still have since, oops, I forgot to take any meds this morning.

Even before I "kicked the habit" years ago, I never cut up my arms. It was a rule...or perhaps a bargain. It hasn't been easy resisting the urge but this time it was almost like the madman inside took control and I couldn't stop him. I could hear my own voice echoing in my head pleading to stop but at the same time, I enjoyed every second of it. How fucked up is that?!

One of the chief methods I've used for the past couple years to keep the urge at bay is my own fear. My fear that once I started up again, I might not be able to control it. The newly crimsoned lines on my arm are a testimony of my fear realized.

I don't know if I am asking for advice or just needed to vent. I know I'm messed up but part of my sickness is that I cannot always do what I know I should and I sometimes run towards the darkness when I know I should flee.