I&#039m just going to warn everyone before they read it that this isn&#039t a happy go-lucky post, and well, honestly, it&#039s really quite disturbing. I&#039m writing it as a way of getting it out of my system so I can stop obsessing over it. Ian isn&#039t here for me to use him as an outlet, and I need something. So this is it.

Monday night I went to a play put on by my friend George. It was about relationships and growing up and other things like that, all personal narratives and experiences that the actors have lived through. There were stories about first loves, first crushes, addictions, alcohol, and abuse. George warned me about the account of one student which involved cutting, but he didn&#039t tell me that the entire story was about that or that he would be showing like violence on the screen behind the actor. It has been six years since I was in therapy for it (It&#039s what landed me in therapy in the first place), and so it has been pretty much six years since I&#039ve done it. For the actor, it has been three years, but his concluding remarks really hit home. He talked about the Voice, the one inside his head that tells him to cut himself when he&#039s depressed. He said the Voice never goes away, and it doesn&#039t.

Needless to say, it&#039s something I suspect I&#039ll always struggle with, but it is easier to ignore than at other times. When I&#039m confronted with it and it&#039s right up in my face, well, then it&#039s pretty impossible to ignore or let slide. Monday brought back a lot of memories, some of them good about relationships, lots of them terrifying about all my past depression and related issues. I&#039m not the same person I was when I started college. Besides Ian, George is one of the very few people who could truly remember what I was like and how far I have come, so that&#039s why he warned me beforehand about the scene. I guess being semi-prepared for it wasn&#039t enough, because last night I finally had a nightmare about it.

I guess I didn&#039t have time to have a nightmare about it Monday night because after the play, I talked to Ian until midnight only to get up at four to write a presentation. Not a lot of sleep then, but yesterday I napped from about seven to ten, then went back to bed around one. I had the dream this morning after I woke up at five with the cat in my face and before the alarm went off at six thirty. Thankfully, I&#039ve forgotten most of it, but what I remember really bugs me.

Something led up to me being in the English Department here on campus. That&#039s probably because I&#039ve been up there a lot recently talking to George. He wasn&#039t there, and the offices had been turned into makeshift medical examination rooms. I was me (Often in my dreams I&#039m not me but someone else.), and I was sitting on the examination bed just swinging my legs being bored at being there. Someone came in (Nurse? Doctor?), and she did the basic checking blood pressure, shining lights in my eyes kind of thing. Then she pulled a hypodermic needle thingie out and asked me to turn my arm over so she could draw blood. For those of you who are uninitiated, just know that the first time I had to do this, I fainted. So I wasn&#039t looking forward to this. Then she explained how she wanted me to do it. She held her wrist up and pressed down on the vein until a bubble of blood formed under the skin just under her palm. She explained that this was the easiest way to do it and then she&#039d put the needle in. Yeah, right. Immediately, I became two people to handle this. For some odd reason (probably due to too much movie watching), I became Jay and Silent Bob, anyone other than myself in order to cope. All I could see was the image of a needle plunging into that bubble and it exploding in a spray of red. I could feel my wrists itching and burning and aching already just watching. I pulled up into myself on the bed and was alternately dead silent or raging with swearing and attacks, telling her that there was no way I was doing this, that this was fucked up and what kind of crazy kooz was she to ask me to do this? She calmly insisted and even tried reaching for me, but I kept pulling back. She finally got my wrist and all I could see was blood even though she didn&#039t have the needle anywhere near me. Everything was soaked in blood, and I was Silent Bob, staring mutely, trying to tell her through my eyes and expression that this was a bad idea. Then I woke up.

I can&#039t wear my watch today. I&#039m wearing a short-sleeved shirt to avoid anything touching my wrists. I&#039m typing high up over the keyboard so my wrists don&#039t touch the glass-top desk. My arms still ache, still itch but I won&#039t touch them. I can&#039t touch them without horrible flashes of razors, knives and needles flooding my mind. When I was in therapy, I&#039d get to talk about this, explain what I&#039m thinking and feeling and then be advised as to how to react. It has been years since then, and I have forgotten how to cope. Ian left saying that he&#039d worry about me because I told him about the play, and he has every reason to. The Voice never goes away. Sometimes, that&#039s all I hear. Thankfully, I&#039m not exactly depressed or I&#039d be staying at a friends where all my knives aren&#039t. I hope we stay busy at work today with advising, because it&#039s going to be the only thing distracting me from the blood calling. I&#039m kind of scared.