The Journal Entries

I’m so embarrassed.

I wasn’t going to write about this, because I don’t think it’s that important—or that big of a deal—but after what happened today, I have to.

This morning at work, when I was trying to move the thousands of boxes of files that my boss forced me to relocate to the back closet, she saw something and pulled me into her office because she felt the need to talk to me about it.

I wore long sleeves for a reason, but I’m a fucking idiot and pulled my sleeves up because it was smoldering in the office. If you don’t already know how fucking heavy a box of files can be, please be advised.

Two days ago I made a cheese pizza in the oven—keep in mind that I always cook pizzas on the bottom shelf, because it makes the crust crispier. When I started to pull it out of the oven, I burned the inside of my right wrist on the top rack, and it hurt like hell. But for some reason, I just stood there, letting it burn. I didn’t pull my arm away like I should have; I don’t know why.

In that moment, I felt something that I’d never felt before. And I don’t even know how to explain it, but all you need to know is that something was there. Something was inside my head that made it feel good.

So of course, having thought it felt good, I pressed my wrist to the rack a second time. But the second time I yelped and yanked my arm back, only leaving a faint burn mark as opposed to the whelped, bubbling skin that bore evidence to the first burn. I cried a little, and I’m not sure if it was because of the pain, or the fact that the first one had felt good.

Anyway, back to the point. My boss flipped out on me, and wouldn’t believe me when I told her it was an accident. Even though it was a teensy-weensy lie, she caught me in it. She asked how I accidentally burned myself twice in nearly the same spot, and I mumbled around incoherently because I couldn’t think of anything to tell her. I’m such a fucking idiot sometimes.

I guess I just didn’t think that it was a big deal at the time; now I feel so dumb. I don’t know why I even did it in the first place, much less how to make up an excuse about it.

So she’s making me go see a therapist or something because she’s afraid I’m hurting myself intentionally. I suppose it couldn’t hurt, even though I’m not trying to kill myself. Maybe they’ll help me take my mind off of everything that’s been going on.

x,
Carlie