Last time I cut was moments ago, actually. Prior to that, it was in May of 2015. I just flushed down almost 3 years of progress down the fucking toilet. Well not really, I still self-harmed by hitting myself repeatedly in the head, but I had not cut since 2015 up until now.  
  
Oddly enough my anxiety has subsided to a manageable level. I didn’t want to abuse my Ativan since I already took a milligram earlier today so I wouldn’t lose my shit at work. I got home, or should I say house, and the anxiety had me on the verge again. I started to feel the anvil crushing my chest again and my hands and feet were starting to go numb.  
  
So I did it. I cut. 6 pathetic slits on my upper forearm. My boyfriend is in the next room. Oblivious to my pain, oblivious to my suffering. No fucking idea of my hell that he, inadvertently, helps maintain.  
  
Who knows, if he sees my scars he may finally end it. The thought of that terrifies me, but that’s tomorrow’s fright. Tonight, I find solace and comfort in the ruby bracelets adorning my arm.