It's Christmas Eve.
No wait, it's past midnight; technically it's Christmas Day.
I'm lying in bed, the Vitamin String Quartet playing a soothing melody from my iPod, and I have a plastic knife pressed to my upper thigh. I dig in deep with the serrated edge and then quickly pull away for a lovely zing. I feel more in control and my grip on reality tightens with each slash of the knife.
It's been less than an hour since I took my trazodone, an anti-depressant more commonly used as a sleeping aid. Wow, that sounds technical, but the me, the little white pills are just a way of bringing the five hours it takes me to fall asleep down to two.
I'm getting tired and my scratching is getting more and more careless, so I slide the knife out from under my covers and tuck it away beneath a book on my beside table.
One of my dearest friends told me that she was cutting earlier this day. Cutting and starving herself. She's scared witless, but she chose me of all our friends to tell. Perhaps she could sense a kindred spirit. I want to be with her to make sure she eats and she wants to confiscate my sharp objects; god, we're such hypocrites. Hypocrites who love each other.
It's Christmas Eve.
No wait, it's past midnight; technically it's Christmas Day.
I'm lying in bed, waiting for sleep to creep on me, and there is plastic knife on my bedside table.
Merry Christmas.
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