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that's a little bit shit. did i say a little bit. um, maybe a lot. a whole lot. my mum found this book i bought a while today. well i know she must have. if i had of kept it hidden in my drawer everything would have been alright but now it's not really. But then there's this,

I feel weird for not caring really.
I see my scars and they are a part of me, a part of who I am. If you don't like it, then go and impale yourself on a pointy stick.

Yeah i want to go to that place. But i can't because it's still - to a degree - very much something that i hide, in all senses of the word. Everyone saw my scars on holiday, they must have, my brohter asked once and i said it's nothing and turned away. Gina, last night, stroked my arm and felt their raised-ness and said what's that, and i had to be quite forceful about it being nothing, "it's nothing, don't just don't", as forceful as you can be around a table of people.

So how do i get there. By being open? This is what i've done and this is who i am? I can't and i think that's part of the problem. The problem hasn't gone away and even though i'm not self-harming any more the depression that led to it is still very much there, somewhat. I just don't feel able to deal with it all, all the questions and repercussions. The depression, the self-harming, just everything. It just something feel like it's worse because, i know i'm feeling down and i feel like i'm hiding it away so that no one knows about it. Like it's some sort of limbo. So that people think, the way i am is caused for other reasons. When it's just not.