Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Fucked up security blankets

There is something very wrong and screwed up with the fact that I had to have someone come over and help me delete the horrible graphic images from my computer.  There is something really fucked up with me that I felt a ton of anxiety about deleting the photos and took double my prescribed dose of sedatives before my friend came to prevent a panic attack.  I was able to stay calm while she was here, but as soon as she left, so did my calm.  I'm still panicking, almost two hours later.  Its screwed up that I would look at these fucked up photos for hours and hours late at night and cut myself.  I'd open the file on my computer, and go into my closet.  I hate closets.  I'm terrified of them, but the large walk in closet in my apartment is the only place that I can have privacy and be sure my girlfriend won't walk in on me while I'm doing fucked up things.  I'd sit in a dark spot between the wall and a dresser in my closet, open the files on my computer, stare at them, cry and slice my skin with a giant box-cutter.  I mean, what kind of person does that?  What does that say about me?  What does it say that as soon as my friend left I went into my apartment, laid in my bed, cut myself, and then sobbed really hard for ten minutes because my photos were gone and I'm not even sure if the tears were because I'm relieved that they are finally gone or because I don't have them anymore.  Both?  God, I'm fucked up.  

I'm horrified that I feel attached to them, like some kind of sick and twisted security blanket.  They were proof that I wasn't lying.  People have doubted or flat out disbelieved my story my whole life and these images were my proof.  They were proof that this really happened.  I didn't just make it all up.  It wasn't all in my head.  I'm not some crazy false accuser psycho kid.  If it weren't for my friend (the only person besides CT who knows about them in real life) constantly telling me how unhealthy it is to have them on my computer, I'd probably be sitting here, drawing, drinking bottled water, looking at my own child pornography, and cutting myself with a giant box cutter and then writing things on the bandages.  What is wrong with me?  Why can't I be a normal person?