The doctor

I went to the doctor today. The doctor saw me and told me to sit on the examining bed. "I know what will make you feel better," he says. He takes out a small blade from his drawer. I don't know why it is in there, that blade. He pulls up the right leg of my shorts so that the inner of my thigh is exposed. "Watch," he says. I watch, fascinated. He puts the blade to my thigh and draws a line across. Blood flows out as the line is drawn. I watch as the bad of me drains away, the part of me I can't control. I know it is in that horrible redness. "Thank you. I feel better already," I say. The doctor tells me to go back whenever I want.

I tell people I'm crazy, but nobody believes me. I'm scared of being alone and lonely but why can I be lonely even when there are people around me? Sometimes I lose complete control of myself. Inside. I'm raging. I turn to the comfort of physical pain for a little while. The distraction is short but it is welcomed. Best of all, there aren't even scars to show for it, just a lasting stinging. The inner thighs are best I suppose, where you can conceal any mark with shorts or pants or skirts. The position is a tiny bit awkward if you use nails but because the place is tender, it's great for the pain as well - greater impact with lesser force. Me, I prefer my arm. What have I become? I don't quite bother, as long as I feel good for a while, somewhere else to concentrate on, the pain becoming a focus, controlling my breathing - it's the centre of my world for a while. This is pain I can control, hurt I can inflict. Pain that feels relatively better and easier to handle than what I am experiencing.