Pocketknives and too many thoughts

I want nothing more than to cut myself...normally I'd share on Tumblr, but I recently got my first follower (who knows me IRL), so I can't post stuff like that anymore. :( I need someone to talk to, someone to touch, someone to hug.I just want to hurt myself. The snag is, I've been telling everyone - my roommate, my RA, the dean of students office, the therapist I was assigned to - that I don't SH. I don't want to go back on that, to make myself a liar for the world to see, to make them start to question everything I told them.At the same time, my knife is calling to me. Little red pocketknife with a shiny silver blade in a black leather case. I want to feel the bite of the blade, see the red come out and drip into the water, coloring it like dye. I want the endorphin rush, the pain, the punishment. I want to hurt my body the way my body hurts my mind. Chronic pain is purely physical, my ass. It's mental torture. I lost my life that day on the operating table. I can't do stairs, I can't sit or stand or lie down for long periods of time, the surface nerves on my back are dead. I hate my body. I hate my self. I hate my life.And here comes the thought of overdoing it, of cutting up instead of over, of just dying and never having to feel like this again. I switched from passively suicidal to actively suicidal....Fuck. I hate this. I hate everything. I don't know what to do now.Little silver blade, come out to play.