It’s hard to breathe and I can’t write like I want to. This sadness is taking over and I don’t know what to do.
I can’t control the urges anymore.
My defenses are weakening and my backup plan is failing. It’s a complete mess; my mind and my writing, soon my body too if I give in. I’m scared because I can feel the pain of a cut into my skin, it’s all to real. I scratch at my wrists,giving in only a little. My arm heats up from the superficial wounds I am causing. It’s telling me to stop, but my mind likes it. The heat of my arm temporarily scares the sadness away. Oh, but it’s only temporary. The sadness gains courage,like most things that get scared. Also, some of my defenses have healed. The fight against the urges is done for a very limited amount of time,but I know I haven’t won it. For now, I’ll try to steady my breathing and fix my writing.