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I don't know how triggering this would be, but here's a

:)

just in case.

After years of resisting temptation, this past Saturday night I finally got a utility knife out of my tool box.  It felt good to finally surrender.

But the blade was dull, so all I wound up with were two little pink spots on my wrist, like a meeting with an apathetic vampire.  I was afraid to use too much pressure, you see.  Now I have one barely visible scab, like a microscopic paper cut.

Then mysteriously on Sunday, my mood popped back up again and I've felt fine ever since.  Damndest thing.  I think it's just a coincidence, not that the decision to cut made the depression lift.

So does this make me A Cutter?  I guess I can't really say until the next inevitable crash.  Thing is, I've been skin-picking obsessively since I was 9.  I've had severe acne most of my life, getting my first pimple at 8.  Now at 32, people still mistake me for a teenager. ;) So it was a natural for a miserably depressed kid.  I would do it for a couple hours a day, obsessively.  Ever since I first heard about cutting, I've felt that skin picking fits into that category.  It's self-destructive, compulsive, relieves emotional tension (in its way,) and for me, totally hypnotic.

So maybe I am.  I donno.

After my 'paper cut,' I told my parents about it.  My family is very close, and I thought it would help me steer clear of it in the future if they knew.  They're very supportive.  I haven't told my pdoc though; I have a fear of big guys with butterfly nets.  I know I'll have to though, eventually. 

Anyway, thanks for reading.  I hope I haven't given anyone a tough night.

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