So, foreword: I'm *not* suicidal, and this is a throwaway.

I sliced myself open with the stanley knife again. Not seriously just... run of the mill self harm. I was just sitting here listening to metal when I slipped into one of my depression trances and before I knew it, I was bleeding again.

This was the first time I've done it sober. I started about three weeks ago when I was on the grog and I thought it was a freak occurrence. Then it happened again a few nights later. Carved a bunch of runes into my skin, and an Aegishjalmur into my chest. Apparently they're some kind of protection spell; I guess I thought I knew what I was doing when I was drunk but I have nfi now. I just trace over the lines because I'm worried about getting too scarred.

It's all under the shirt. I could walk around and nobody would know, which I think pisses me off because I feel like I'm trying to communicate my pain because I'm too fucking male to talk to somebody IRL (this has been beaten into me by my family). I could throw away the stanley knife but, tbh, it's the cleanest blade I own and if I resort to something like a pair of scissors or a steak knife I'm liable to do myself more damage, or at least incur more scarring.

I kicked the grog for a bit and I thought I was getting into a better place, but last night I had a dream about cutting again. I woke up feeling shit but I told myself I wasn't going to let that happen. I got shit done. I was preparing to work on my manuscript (of which, the first draft is nearly done, so I should be fuckin' happy)

Then this fuckwit decided he was going to sign up for a dating site. Get back on the ball, I thought! It'll be fun, I thought!

The thing about those places is that they're fantastic at cutting through my delusions and highlighting how worthless I actually am. 30? Unemployed due to permanent disability? Agoraphobic? Mentally ill on at least five counts? Yeah, you're no good for anybody. You'll probably die alone. My fiance told me so when she dumped me over the phone when I was in a psych ward and as much as I want her to be wrong, I just can't do it.

I need to get out of this fucking town but it's going to cost me at least a grand to get back to Sydney. That's if I leave my cats in Mackay, which means rehoming them which is going to make me feel like a cunt for doing and I do actually love my cats. The problem is I'm spending my time in a room staring at a word processor, with my only social contacts being my shitty family who only tell me to see a counselor, and two felines.

The thing is that I don't *want* to pay somebody to give a shit about me, I want somebody to give a shit about me because they care. I had a lot of friends a while ago but they were my friends because I was the same religion as them, which is shitty and shallow, and now I'm not that religion anymore so that's gone too.

So now I'm bleeding again. I mean, it's stopped now because the blood has dried but I'll be sore tomorrow. At least part of this is because I went off my antidepressants but I genuinely don't want to be on five different meds anymore, so I cut back to just Seroquel. I wasn't like this before I went on the meds and I shouldn't be like this now, so I'm hoping I get over it.

I don't know why I persevere. I guess I get credits for still being here but where the fuck do I spend them?

Torso's getting pretty stripey.