What Would It Be Like Now? TW

I've been in therapy for about a month and three weeks. If I remember correctly, this is the longest I've remained with a therapist voluntarily since I was 13/14. I saw the school counselor weekly for nearly the entire school year when I was in 8th grade (when I began cutting). I don't think my parents were aware of this at the time. I'm now 22 years old and they know a bit about my past with cutting. I'm not sure how much they know, but they were informed by the school my junior year of high school.  I have refused to discuss it with them, and I don't think I will never talk about it with my family voluntarily.  I don't think they will ever know just how bad it got at that time. They can see the scars on my forearm but they don't know I have more on my leg, hip, bicep, and stomach. They will never understand how cutting completely took over my mind and my life.  Even if I told them they would never understand just how obsessed I was with cutting and how it slowly creeps back into my life from time to time. I don't believe I will ever be able to move past it.

When it creeps back into my life that doesn't mean I go back to cutting. There are many reasons I cannot do that. I think I will write a separate entry about those reasons. But the thoughts of it do come. I slowly become obsessed with it again. My heart races when I think about what it used to do for me, everything it gave me.  Sometimes I cannot stop smiling remembering how exciting it was to prep for a session or how wonderfully calm I would feel immediately after. I search online for pictures of fresh cuts that look like mine did. I try to find any reading material with even the slightest mention of self-injury. When I find a movie with a cutting scene, I will watch it over and over again. I don't mean the entire movie, I will watch that one scene.  I'll take anything I can find: movies, books, songs, artwork, stories, photos. I feel like this kind of obsession is no better than actually cutting.
I recently got a library card and came across a small section of books with self-injury in the title. I wasn't looking for them and I didn't want to look at them because my girlfriend was with me. Ever since that day I have been trying to think of ways to get back to the library by myself. I just want to find an isolated corner and read every single word of those books, just to be connected to cutting.  It's hard because of my work schedule, but I won't give up until I've been able to read them.
I've been very open about this with my therapist and I feel really comfortable with her. She's been very receptive to everything I've said about cutting and I haven't felt judged by her once. That shouldn't be such a huge deal when talking about therapy but that hasn't always been my experience.  I once was forced to see a therapist who seemed to be disgusted by my experience and I felt like I was teaching her. It was a terrible experience.
I start to wonder what cutting would be like now. If I could do it again, would it be the same? Would I be able to enjoy it in the same way? My biggest fear is that I wouldn't, that that part of me is lost forever. I can't imagine anything worse. Now that I'm a working adult with my own money, I could buy anything I wanted for my cutting sessions. I work in a pharmacy and could purchase some amazing wound care supplies. The aftercare would be ten times better than it was when I was in high school. I made butterfly bandages out of masking tape back then.  Aftercare was a huge part of the experience for me. I loved cleaning and bandaging my wounds. I can hardly write about it because the thought gets me so excited!  I cannot even imagine what it would be like to use real medical tape, gauze, steri strips, real butterfly bandages, even tegaderm.  I would still use the blades from inside disposable shaving razors. Nothing ever compared to those for me. I always wanted to use real blades but they never worked as well I wanted them to. I have tried several different types of blades and broken glass. None of them ever came close.  I could take apart as many as I wanted without worrying that anybody would notice or as questions. 
I don't know that I'll ever be able to move past these thoughts and I'm so afraid that they will consumed me again the way they did five years ago.