Thursday, 5 February 2009

scars

I said the word to James. Two nights ago, via text message: “When are we starting the list?”
I sent it at about 1 a.m. 48 hours later and he still hasn’t replied, which is most unlike him. I don’t think he’s ever not replied to me in the whole time that I know him. James is the kind of guy who prides himself on being a gentleman even though everyone knows he is nothing of the kind underneath his clear-cut English accent and polished charm. Perhaps this is how he wins so many girls into bed with him? Well, needless to say, I still expect a reply at some point; unless he was having sex at the time I sent it or was similarly engaged with a girl of some description and therefore did not register receiving my text.
Well, anyway it’s not a big deal to me, it was only going to be a past time to keep me amused.

Another guy that featured a lot in my life last year was Oliver. (Perhaps I should start using false names in this blog in case I get identified…but then I’d only start getting confused about who I’m talking about!)
I am 21 and Oliver is 18. Born in July 1990 would you believe! Practically as young as you can get in a fresher at uni! Bad times. A whole three years younger than me. (And yes, the sex was bad.) But some terrible things happened with him (see the post ‘Being so caught up’). Anyway I was supposed to be going away this weekend with a group I’m involved in at uni and had made my mind up not to go because I didn’t want him to see me and how fat and ugly I am at the moment. Cos man, I AM SO FUCKING FAT RIGHT NOW!

Anyway I gonna brave it and go because I need the money. I might buy some false eyelashes to cheer myself up.

By the way, I’m going to see The Pussycat Dolls and Lady Gaga supporting them tonight! Little bit excited for some fully live and awesomely hot thinspiration!!!! Jesus, I would actually do anything in the world to be as hot as any one of them. Just IMAGINE.

I’ve had one single recurring image which has haunted me constantly over the past few days. Every moment I let my mind wander slightly it comes to the forefront of my thoughts.
I haven’t self-harmed for about two weeks – not since I decided to go swimming and realised once I reached the pool that my legs resembled a work of gothic modern art. I swam anyway. I’ve never felt the need to hide my scars, expect from my mum. If people see the marks and know I self-harm, so what? I don’t need to justify myself to anyone, I really have never felt the need to hide them or be ashamed in that sense. The only thing I hate is of course that it somewhat ruins my quest for beauty and perfection. What is the point of having a super hot body in a super hot dress when your arms have brown and purple lines all over them.
Anyway, this recurring image is of sticking knives in my thighs. I know you probably don’t want to know this, but I need to write about it. I can’t get it out of my head. Just this image of sticking long sharp blades deep into my thighs, one at a time, methodologically, going straight through my les, pinning me down where I lie. I would get so much satisfaction from doing that.

Of course I wouldn’t do it.

I’ve have hidden all knives away from me.

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