I went to some kind of festival on Saturday evening. I expected to see him, and I was right. I walked past him four or five times, he must have seen me. I am sure he has seen me, or that his friend has at least seen me. He knows me too, and has probably exclaimed "Look, there's blondie."
After that, I have seen my other ex. He is more physically mature, but I can't guarantee his mind has grown, too. No, it could not have.
Every time I saw my guy coming towards me, my knees got weak and I felt warm. I didn't know which way to look. I purposefully chose to walk on a certain street, because I knew he would come there, too, and I was right! What if he did the same thing? No, it can't be. Because I'm the only one who stupidly believes things could be the same again.
As soon as I got back home, I cut. I filled the sink with warm water and let the blood flow there. It was so bright red, a sink full of water and blood.
Okay. Now I think my cut is infected, because I "played" a bit with it yesterday. I could be a damn good surgeon, if I were into Biology. I kept cutting and plucking my cut. I felt like saying "Scalpel" and "Suction, please," like in Grey's Anatomy.
My therapist still wants to send me to a psychiatrist because I have been taking Nurofen, but I have talked about that before.
The only reason why I am not killing myself is because I am afraid of the possibility of going to hell after that (since there is no absolute, trustworthy proof of its existence). But I felt so low on Sunday, so suicidal that I started crying because I had only one wish: to die, and not even that wish would be fulfilled anytime soon. I cried and cried and felt like crap, but I am better now.
I am at my grandma's again, where there's a little less chaos. I feel suicidal the moment I enter my house and room, because that's the place where so much crap has happened. Cutting and vomiting and starving and laxatives and Nurofen and sitting on windowsills and fights and my mother leaving and me being suicidal and crying and so on.
"Death is no dream, for in death I'm caressing you
With the last breath of my soul I'll be blessing you."
- Gloomy Sunday, The Hungarian Suicide Song.