February 16, 2020 was the last time I cut myself. It's officially been 2/3 of a year. This is by far the longest I've made it since about 2006. I ordered something small for myself to celebrate but now I'm wishing I had done something more instant and something bigger. I know that my plan for one year is to get a big tattoo over scars. And I know I'll hate myself if I do anything to fuck it up after making it this far.

Today was an awful terrible day. Just worse than anything I could have possibly imagined happening in my wildest dreams. I'm legit scared of going back to work on Monday. And as much as it pains me to admit, nothing calms me down quite like the sight of my own blood. 

I don't plan on acting on it now, but there was a moment where I was scared I was going to and sat in my car for 50 minutes after getting home so that I wouldn't. I was dissociating badly (for the first time since March) and I knew I wasn't myself in that state.

And I'm angry. I'm angry that moment brought those urges back to the surface after mostly living without them. And even though I wouldn't act on them now, I'm mad that they are there and that I have a strong desire to see myself bleed. I'm hoping they will fade away again with the next few days because I know myself and I know I don't always have the good sense to take the weight of that decision into consideration. And I know it would kill me to have to restart the clock. That's the main thing that stops me now. Without that, restraint would be a lot harder.

What's weirder is that the day started with flashbacks to last winter when I saw it snowing outside. Before the fucked up events of the day even happened I was already filled with dread and brief flashes of those dark moments in late January and early February when I was dead set on putting my suicide plan into action. Feels like an omen now.