Do not try this at home (Reopening old wounds)

I got drunk. I know, I know, big whoop. Nearly everybody gets drunk and loves it. Nearly everybody has had a bad experience too, right? But last night was something different... Last night was the definition of instability.

I've been eating a lot less junk food as promised in my last post (which has a grand total of 0 hits, thanks guys!) and I've sort of started forgetting to eat anything instead. So there I was on my second pint of Kopparberg strawberry and lime feeling much more tipsy than two pints would generally cause and I realised I'd had a grand total of five chicken wings all day. I was out with my boyfriend's friends being praised pretty highly as apparently he tends to go for complete and utter morons. They thought I was cool with my lame attempts at pool and my shitty Star Wars jokes (and my total lack of shame for swinging both ways) but something happened. I walked into the corner of a table and spilled some abandoned butt of a pint on the guy that hates ballet. I switched frames of mind instantly. I wanted to go home to bed immediately. I couldn't handle the guilt of getting his trouser leg a little bit wet.

I fled the scene and skulked in the ladies bathroom until I came across a brick of graffiti which was particularly uplifting and instantly thought of you all. "Tomorrow exists." it proclaimed, possibly to convince people to use a condom or warn of their impending hangover but I took something else from it entirely. I took to planning a blog that you'll never read because it has become disingenuous. My mood lightened and I was able to go back, point out the girl with the amazing back and persuade four tipsy men to do shots of tequila... And go home immediately afterward.

There is something in company that reminds you you're a part of something, however broken it seems. I came home to a dog. I took out my retired Stanley knife and I forgot that dying is totally fucking over every client who's booked me for the season. I cut deep into my wrist. The gash is about 5mm wide because I meant it. I meant to enjoy each slice and chose not to start at the vein but I forgot one very important thing: I am remarkably squeemish. The blood was too much. I panicked. I was nauseated. I wrapped a wet wipe around my wrist, taped it tight and went to sleep.

There are blood stains on my bed that scream "Yesterday exists!" and we can't afford to forget that. There's a bandage on my wrist, too, that says I have a lot more tomorrows than yesterdays. I told you before that I have learned to hope and I have reevaluated my self-help strategies before your very eyes but here's a different secret for you: The scars I've worn for seven years have never been worth the adrenaline of the cut. It took a rather bloody drunken night to rember what I learnt at fourteen but once we stand together and draw butterflies we'll learn the way to the happy place together. I'm not alone in this and that's very important cause I'm really, really stupid when I'm alone.

Lick your wounds and march on,
Depressivedetails@gmail.com