29.10.2000

Do not want to die.

Last night I slashed my wrist.

I've never done that before. I've only held a razor over it, maybe pushed it gently to scratch, but I've never slashed it.

Perhaps I can't call it that now either, because I couldn't find the artery. I couldn't find it because I couldn't make my right hand function properly, having cut it open in a slightly different way a few minutes previously. I couldn't find it because I started to feel sick, so I rushed to the bathroom thinking I would throw up, but instead I had to sit down for minutes because I nearly fainted. After I started feeling better, I came back to my room, slashed the cut again, and repeated the above, except that I didn't go to the bathroom. Then I stopped.
I couldn't find the artery because I couldn't remember where exactly it was supposed to be, and I couldn't find it because it hurt too much to cut any deeper and because I went so numb I couldn't do anything but exist anymore.

I remember saying I don't cut because of the pain. That seems to have changed a bit, but I still can't deal with that much pain.

The pain is relevant. The pain makes everything better. The blood-soaked tissues make everything better. The gaping hole in my left wrist and the cuts on my right wrist make everything better.

Something is very wrong with me nowadays. More so than it was before.

There are other things, as well.