A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about being particularly angry.
It’s been nearly a month since something very bad happened to someone close to me. I had to promise not to say anything to anyone. And I won’t. I can’t even tell Wife. And other than by listening and being supportive, I can’t help “the situation.” Right now “the situation” seems to be in a holding pattern, but might get slightly better in a month or so. I’m hoping. Until then, I’m ready to sacrifice my own sanity for my friend. It’s what a friend does. I do believe it will work out for the better, and that by holding my stress in, we will produce the best result.
It’s starting to get to me. I’ve been pretty stressed out, and have had to ask Wife a couple of times to be patient with me. She suggested I talk to a therapist. Unfortunately, I don’t think it will work. The time and effort it would take to find a suitable counselor would be significant, as would getting to know and trust the therapist. I’m hoping that “the situation” will get better earlier than I’d find someone to talk to. And to be honest, I'm not really desperate enough to talk to a stranger about it.
Yesterday morning the pressure was pretty bad. It might have been partially brought up by Wife and I discussing my options, but that’s only part of it. It’s been a steady undercurrent since I was brought into it. Yesterday was surprising though, I was tempted to start “cutting” again. It’s not really an apt description, but seems to be the common term. As a teenager, I was “a cutter.” Like the valve on your cars radiator, opening myself seemed to relieve the built-up pressure, dropping it to a manageable level. For whatever reason, I wasn’t a razor-blade guy. I preferred to run a sewing needle along my skin, digging in to create a groove. Then I would simply excavate, like a human Panama Canal. Usually with a sewing needle, but I think I still have a knife somewhere for when the needle wasn’t big enough. I remember the slow ripping, tearing sound the needle would make. After a while, the pressure would dissipate, I wash away the blood, and return to my usual pleasant demeanor. There was likely an adrenaline rush that helped too. It’s probably been at least a decade since I’ve had this urge, really it’s been that long since I’ve thought about it at all. And I’ve never before been able to explain the relief as well as I did typing this. It makes me wonder if this time I’m making a decision, as opposed to the old times being more impulse-driven.
I have quite a few scars from this habit, mostly covered by tattoos at this point. The tattoos take away attention from the scars, as well as create a cover that I’m not likely to damage for the sake of pressure release. I didn’t cut yesterday. Partially because I know Wife wouldn’t understand and would get pretty upset. Instead I managed to just keep myself busy until I was leaving to meet friends. By then, it wasn’t an option.
I wonder if simply getting another tattoo might help? Then again, that would just add the stress of a few hundred dollars that I can’t afford to spend…