Morning girlies. I just wanted to reiterate that, even I have not posted for a couple of days, I still religiously read all your entries, and comment whenever possible.
This week has exploded into being insanely busy. I do feel as though I am free falling through it all.
The residue of this weekend is still weighing on me. Perhaps the business and stress has prevented me dealing with it. I don't know. But I am not dealing. At least not in a way that society would allow me. I have continued cutting myself this week. I know I said I would stop. It just has not happened. I think I justify the situation, to myself, in the following ways: I am not hurting anyone (else), I am not doing it for attention (I am really, really not), I almost never cut myself deeply (without trying to sound morbid, I do not cut myself to feel pain. I cut myself for release, and the 'feeling' is part of it of course, but seeing the blood come to the surface and the area go pink enables that feeling of release. Does that make sense to anyone?), I heal reasonably quickly (so the obvious evidence has disappeared usually within a week, and the only remnants are pale lines that are not overtly noticeable). To me, that seems reasonable. I suppose I am hardly impartial in the matter.
Last night was, i suppose interesting would be an appropriate word. To shine some light on how starkly contrasting the two halves of my evening were, the first half was spent at a stand up comedy gig at my bar with L, the second was spent at home doing something I hate, loathe, detest, abhor. I cried. Worst of all, I cried 'about' me. I acknowledge that I cry, I do. I cry about ridiculous things. I cry at movies all the time. I cry at tv. I cry at the news. I cry over books. I cry over old people. I cry at things that are nothing to do with my life. some people find it strange, but I just hate to cry over 'me' or my life. Firstly I feel I have absolutely no right whatsoever. More importantly, I feel too vunerable. In a way I like to be emotionally detached. A therapist once postured that the reason my reactions to books and movies and what not are so strong (if something is even remotely sad I will cry. If something is even remotely amusing I will laugh out loud. If something is even remotely unjust I become furious) is that I use it as my emotional outlet, rather than my own life. I do not know. I digress. So I cried. I cried because I felt I was not coping. more importantly, I felt like I was failing. At nothing overly specific, more in general sense.
It was at that moment, when I was sitting alone in the dark, listening to Hallelujah by Jeff Buckley, crying, that the Boy decided to walk in. He has seen me cry before. The vast, vast majority of times it has been the above crying. It is not real, it is affected and if you know me you can tell. I must have looked rather feeble, and his face fell. Of course he asked what was wrong, and i said I did not know. He tried to accept that maybe I didn't, but I could tell he was unsure. So he carried me to the bedroom and just lay there with me. He asked if I could try to explain, even if I was not sure. So I made the summary point that I did not feel as though I was coping. He queried with what. I replied me. He did not push, which I appreciated. So we just lay there, until he broke the silence by saying he noticed something a few days ago, and stroked my left inner forearm. I could feel his finger find the ridges.
So I am not as subtle as I presumed. I am not sure if that is due to my thinking I was too good at hiding it, or a lack of belief he would notice or a combination of the two. He was not angry. I think he tends to see things and rather than dive in and demand actions from me, he quietly watches to make sure i am okay. Okay enough.
So that was my night.
I hope everyone else's was nicer. I must dash, I am at work as always, and one of the managing directors is arriving soon. I think I like him, although more often than not I want to throttle him!