Wanting to cut

My name is Cristina Johnson.

I can't stop rocking. i am surrounded by things...things... things...

The dresser is Broyhill. As is the nightstand. Top-of-the-line, I suppose.

Snowball, the polydactyl cat, sits on my dresser, staring at me Behind her is a mirror and dangling necklaces and bracelets that I never asked for and, which, never suited me.

I am not suited for jewelry.

I've talked to several people tonight, trying to ground myself. I came here - to my writing refuge -hoping to relieve myself of this need for self-punishment, but so far, it hasn't worked.

Howie, Bill, Cindy, Hannah........ well, not Bill, reallyk. He's tired. He works a lot.
I cut myself a lot. I injure myself a lot. But I am careful about it. I protect my youngest son from it.l

He doesn't want to know any more than what he asks and that works for me. In fact, if I try or wanted to explain to him about my past he doesn't want to hear it. Same as my daughter.

Perhaps that is right.

It is unfortunate that my oldest knows so much.

Tonight I want to cut so badly. So badly.

People wonder why. They can't fathom why one would cut themselves, harm themselves, starve or binge themselves.

It serves so many purposes.

To be alive. To see your own blood, means you're alive. To suffer, means you're alive. To hurt yourself, means you are alive.

Even if, inside (or, perhaps because inside) you feel dead.

Proof that you're alive...............