I've not been 'well', I am still not. Everything hurts too much… My skin, my mind, they both feel raw and it is manifesting into physical illness. Real dissociative episodes leading to amnesia (never thought I would actually be diagnosed with that). So, I figured I would write some more while I lie in bed and wait for the next bout of nausea. Throwing up medication is the worse, especially when they are the size of horse tablets and are supposed to be slow-release for the next day.

My hands rubbed my wrists absentmindedly. Trying to go 'cold turkey' was a terrifying prospect. I wanted to scratch them so hard that the blood would bubble up and flow as my fingernails would nick an old ropey scar which stood as though it was the highest peak across the mountain range of my skin.

I had promised Heero that I would try /and fail/ to stop; like an alcoholic or smoker giving up their poison of choice. Because really, I am just like them, waiting on their next fix. But my familiar need, was a blade running through my skin, seeing the blood flow down my arm, watching as it gathered on my fingertips to drip and then fall onto porcelain bathroom tiles.

I had told my psychiatrist about this. How I felt my habit was only comparable to those. Some days I can bare my soul to her in confidence, and others I can hardly mutter a greeting. She has always been encouraging and somehow patient, perhaps that is why I liked her and had been seeing her for so long. But for a long year, I had always tried to avoid this topic whenever it was brought up. I focused more on the psychological problem rather than the physical presenting symptoms. And the medication she prescribed only led to peculiar out-of-body experiences when I did meet my blade on the darkest nights. Nights where I would watch a braided man from above, unable to act or comfort him. Sometimes I would watch him sitting on the floor of the shower and watching him cry in solitude as he drew the blade across his skin.

The first part of this was finally accepting I was addicted. Yes, addicted. I hate that word /but it fits you so well/. It had never been an addiction during the war. Post mission /murder/ it had been a punishment. When did it become something else? Something I relied on, something that I craved? I don't remember. It could have been just after the end of the war. I used it when those memories and dreams assaulted me. And I say assaulted, because they were raw and realistic depictions of my past, and it genuinely felt like I was being attacked. I would see the flames glint across the blade as I used it to try and drown out the screaming or shattering explosions around me. When Heero was with me after the war, I took what I needed from him instead, and in return, he would do the same. But as much as I loved him, he was a comfort and not a release.

Cutting when you feel numb, half the time only makes you feel… it makes you feel nothing. You reach a point where your skin becomes desensitised from the intense damage you have caused. The point where your blades start to wave that little white flag and make you realise that you need something more. A sharper blade perhaps, one that would make you feel something, anything but the pain in your soul.

Then do you cut out of habit instead? The rush of seeing your blood does nothing to you anymore, but instead makes you constantly light-headed and fall into anaemia. Having your cuts and scars visible, random people in the street commenting or guiding their children away from you to the other side of the street, doesn't register anymore. You are no longer afraid or ashamed. You wear this pain as impenetrable armour.

I had rehearsed this over and over again in my mind, doubtful that in the end, I could even find the words. Trying desperately to reach the surface while my depression weighed me down like an anchor. The crushing pressure of your own self-hatred because of how I made my lover feel.

I had made my own way here this time. I had been avoiding Heero as much as I could over the last week. Though we would still talk through messages on our mobile phones, he was probably just trying to make sure that I was still there /still alive/. The actual fifteen minutes before my session I had dry heaved over the toilet there. I know the familiar nurses heard me. And when I exited, they brought over one of those small plastic water cups that you only ever found in waiting rooms. I had shot them a cheeky grin as a thank you. The poor woman had actually blushed. But the grin turned to a grimace as I silently sipped at the water, trying to keep it down. They must have had to deal with others just like me. Other patients would be better served by their kindness. I was nothing like the patients they had seen before. They had no idea what horrors I had committed in my past, the murders and devastation that I had caused. Chances were that they lost at least one loved one to a Gundam attack /probably by Deathscythe/.

In the end, Dr Willow, had listened silently. Letting me ramble as my fingers continued to reach below my shirt sleeve. My usual cup of coffee was forgotten on the table uncharacteristically forgotten. My mind was racing a million miles a minute as I explained everything that had happened in the last week to her. Dammit. I felt high or something. Usually, I would take medication that would help when I did feel like this, but I had decided against it, not liking the way that everything would slow down and make me fumble my words (1).

Though the next words that fell from her lips stunned me into an uncomfortable silence. "I think Duo, I think you are right. You are addicted, you said it yourself." Damn, hearing someone agree to your own self-destructive diagnosis was terrifying, knowing that you were indeed crazy all along. I had wished it was nothing more than a faulty self-diagnosis determined by a website, but she just continued. "Perhaps some time in inpatients would actually do you some good at the moment. You're showing a genuine desire to heal, and time in a stable environment would actually help you right now. And we have a few empty beds at the moment, so waiting won't be an issue."

My head shot up and I found I was looking at her as though she had three heads, not believing what she had actually said. My heart felt like it was skipping a beat here and there which made my stomach turn. The room was spinning around me.

I thought I could trust her, and now she was saying that I needed to be locked up /locked up for all the evil you have done/. The intensity of the emotions washing over me dragged me from her room and towards home. Anger, sadness, regret, trust issues, name it I was feeling everything at once. But I was still feeling disconnected from it all.

The only good thing that came out of the session today was the fact that I had again left earlier than our allotted time. My aching soul urged my feet to return me home as quickly as possible. Not to seek comfort in my Japanese love, but to find comfort in something else. Heero had mentioned that in order to distract himself from the constant worry that he was going to go the gym. So it meant that when I returned to the apartment it was thankfully empty. On autopilot, I headed to the bathroom.

I had been running out of places to hide my blades. Although Heero claimed to understand that I needed them, he also out of concern, and possibly love, would take them from me, and I was grateful that he had not found this latest hiding spot. Here they were packed into a small plastic bag which I had then taped onto the base at the curve of the toilet (2). My hands were shaking and wouldn't grip anything. The blades exploded from the bag like stainless steel confetti as I desperately tried to release them.

Dropping to the floor, I unsheathed one of the blades and quickly brought it to the skin on my lower left arm. My body was numb. I couldn't feel the usual familiar release, so I did it again and again. Each time I brought the blade down I dug deeper and deeper. The fascination of seeing my blood run across my skin didn't greet me as it would normally. But then again was nothing 'normal' about this.

I was close to fainting when I managed to stand. The blood began running down my arm to drip to the floor. I needed something else, something sharper. Stumbling over to our 'emergency drawer' in the bedroom where our guns lay safely hidden, I entered the code and opened it. Hidden pushed to the back was a familiar pocket knife, a gift from Solo before he died. It had always stayed stowed in the cockpit of Deathscythe. I knew from experience that the blade was deliciously sharp, and in all this time the blade was meticulously maintained. I had used it on rare occasions when I couldn't reach the comfort of a safe house. I always knew that Solo would have somehow approved of this as he knew what the alternative would be /you could always join him/. I could hear him scolding me though, making sure that not only did the blade retain its delicious edge, but also make sure that any ministrations from its use were kept clean, and that I was safe.

Leaving bloody hand prints on all the surfaces I used to keep me steady as I returned to the bathroom, lay forgotten in my mind. I could feel the dissociation separating me more and more from reality. I was no longer a participant but merely a watcher.

The man closed and locked the bathroom door and slid down the door into the pool of blood from moments ago, the tip of his braid soaking into it almost a crimson-coated paintbrush. Clutching the pocket knife to his chest, he tried to slow his breathing. The blood was still flowing from the previous cuts but they were slowing to a trickle. They had been deep but short, the flesh parted efficiently. On their healing journey, they would fill with crusted puss, but those types of cuts were always the most satisfying to pick at, scars would take far longer to completely heal.

The man brought down the blade against his skin, this time onto the lower right arm, with the intention of matching the wounds in ghastly symmetry. This time the cuts were deeper, much deeper. It was harder to see the damage he had created now. The blood looked as though it was bubbling from the wound.

And the man didn't register the sound of the front door opening.

(1) A common effect of a manic episode. These can last from minutes to months depending on the category of bipolar disorder you are diagnosed with. Medication is usually an antipsychotic or a benzodiazepine. These are usually married with a combination of anti-depressants.

(2) Yep, actually did this one.

That hurt to write. And I honestly had no idea where it was even going. I guess all the coming chapters will be filled with nothing but fear for my future. I wish I could just write some fluff for fluff's sake. But my mind doesn't work like that.