I'm sorry. I just can't, anymore. I can't deal with this. I need a moment to explode.

Jesus fucking Christ, why do I try, anymore?"If you ever drink, smoke, do drugs, or cut again, I'll consider it as big a betrayal as cheating on me."Fuck you.You're my girlfriend. I don't think I've ever said that to you, not even behind your back, but fuck you.You said those words to me a year-and-a-half ago. I have not once railed painkillers, taken a sip of alcohol, a hit of nicotine, pot, ecstasy, anything. I haven't even taken a blade to my ankles (wrists aren't my thing). Not in seventeen goddamn months.I said, "Then I'll expect the same of you."By your standards, you've cheated on me... what, four times, now?The cutting I get completely. Why you believe that me relapsing is a betrayal to you, I don't know. Because you should fucking understand. The only reason, then, that I'm furious for you breaking that promise twice in the past year is because of your own damn words. It's your fault, and don't even think for one fucking second that it isn't. I can't even bring myself to feel sympathy, because I know that you wouldn't at all, if the tables were turned.As for the drinking? You've got to be fucking kidding me. You were never a drinker. Not at all. Not even near as much as I was, and yet I'm the clean one. Don't give me your bullshit excuses. Just because your family doesn't think that you "joining in the celebration" is a bad thing doesn't mean that you fucking have to. Nobody's forcing a bottle down your throat.And then here I am. Do you know how many chances I've had to break my promise? I've been flat-out offered drugs, and I still turned them down -- painfully. Yes, contrary to popular belief, I am not that strong. I do struggle to stay in the lines.I've had chances to drink, I've had chances to smoke. Hell, just recently, I was downtown with some friends, and we were trying to make money. I was joking around, saying that we could pick reburns from the streets and sell them to desperate teenagers. I scooped a near-full cigarette from the sidewalk and tucked it behind my ear, and one of the kids I was with asked, "Did you want a lighter?" I took the filter between my fingers and hesitated. But, you know what? I said no, threw it back to the ground, and walked away.I have a highly addictive personality. My parents drink and do drugs, and my brother is a heroin addict. I am the clean one. That's a fucking feat.When I was going through that episode a few months ago, there were so many nights that I sat up studying the pair of scissors I keep on my nightstand. My pocketknife may be long gone, but there have been times, years ago, when I've resorted to those scissors. There were nights that I haphazardly trailed one of the blades across my skin, sometimes even pressing down into it. Of course I knew that one quick jerk would tear me open. But I never acted on it.When I remembered that one of those utility tools hanging from my car keys has a knife in it, I went to check it out. But it was old and dull, no better than the scissors.I think I'd have used it, had it been sharper.Now, don't try to make it better. I don't even want to hear a single sentence starting with, "At least..."Yeah. You were honest. You told me. You always have. I'm grateful for that. But, you know what that says to me? You're not even trying, one way or the other. You're not trying to do shit behind my back, but neither are you trying not to do that shit in the first place.You only had to go and make things more strained than they already are.I'm sorry that I'm keeping the truth of my feelings from you, but I need time to think. I won't make the mistake -- again -- of gushing it all out at one time when I don't even have that good of a grasp on my own thoughts. I need to figure this out. I need to make an ultimate decision. And I can't tell if you're making it easier or harder.