Living in a shared house has, I have discovered, a few pitfalls. Most notable of these is that someone has to remember to buy toilet roll when you’re down to the last one. Because if they don’t… well, let’s just say I was the victim of a nasty surprise.
Fortunately, in the metropolis that is West Bridgford, there’s 24hour shopping aplenty. Well, there’s an ASDA just down the road and it isn’t much of a walk even in the rain. Though, it does seem further, much further, when you’re pissing wet through. And even further when you should have bought the toilet roll before you needed it. Anyway, the upshot of all this is that I had a good old ruminate on the way there and on the way back about the nature of everything and the importance of two-ply. Even though I know it’s dangerous for me to muse (I always see the negative side of things) I did it anyway.
Now I’m sat here with a conundrum. I’m nice and sane again, happy even. I get out and about plenty, see my friends, socialise, crack wise and generally enjoy myself. Yet now and again, unbidden, the thought forms in my head that I should cut myself.
What I want to know is where this thought comes from and why it is that it often seems like a good idea. Patently it’s a rubbish idea. But why does it persist, albeit intermittently, in cropping up?
On this occasion I was pondering, as I strove for toilet roll, why it is that I should feel so lonely and devoid of friends this evening. I last saw some of them yesterday and the days previous had featured a games night, a beer festival, and a party. On each occasion in the company of friends and on each occasion much fun was had by all.
Clearly I am not all alone in the world.
I was wondering if I perhaps have some sort of addiction to good company, that this is simply the resultant comedown from my social high. It was as I was wondering this that it occurred to me that I should cut my arm and I’d probably feel better.
What. The. Fuck?
I’m not even sure I thought it; though that’s a line of enquiry I’m loath to pursue. Obviously I’m alert enough examine the thought and recognise it for what it is, an aberration, and to dismiss the suggestion entirely. Yet still it worries me. I don’t like having ideas like that in my head even if I can ignore them.
It was all this turmoil that made me recall borderline teacher, a blog about, well, a borderline teacher. It’s interesting stuff provided you’re interested in reading about a complete stranger’s issues. (But hey, if you weren’t you wouldn’t be here, right?) The lady behind it is a 28 year old French teacher living in a therapeutic community. She suffers from borderline personality disorder and self harms. It can tend towards the overemotional at times and there’s plenty of hugging and touchy-feely stuff from the folks who post comments but I’m hardly in a position to judge. Like I said, it’s an interesting read and this bit
I do not understand why the act of cutting your skin and drawing blood can cause such calm.
Is particularly apt for this evening. I went for Andrex by the way.
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