These are the letters that I just etched into the inside of my calf. Over the scars left from "BITCH" and "FUCK U". I'm not writing here for pity or attention or whatever; I always feel like that, like an angtsy teenager. I'm not. I'm just trying to put my thoughts down, even though I'm completely disconnected from this. This is a dream, right? It wasn't done in a fit of emotion, I didn't even cry. I tried writing it in red pen, digging hard into the skin. Then I sat in my bed for over an hour fighting with myself. I called my clinic and left a message asking for an urgent appointment for tomorrow. Then I went to the bathroom and threw up for the fourth time today and the seventh time in two days. I took an old razor and used a nail file to prop out a blade. I've never used a razor blade before, only knives and an exacto blade. I washed the dirty blade and washed the pen ink off my calf. Then I went back to my room, peeled off my leggings, and etched in the letters. The blood pearled beautifully. Now I know why people use razor blades. So much less of a fight than knives. The razor blade wants to cut you. The blood pearled in big drops. Once I was done, I placed a kleenex over the blood so that it could seep through and imprint the word onto the tissue. I did that with three tissues, and then wiped the rest with a damp wash cloth. It didn't even hurt for a while and, even then, just a dull throb. I didn't cry. I can't cry anymore. Then I called the counselling service at my school and left a terribly incoherent and embarrassing message asking for an urgent appointment tomorrow, with my shrink or another one, in case I don't get to see my doctor. Because I won't be able to write my exam on Wednesday, I don't think. That's right, pathetic cop-out Lena is looking for a way out again. I can't do it. I can't study when I'm fighting the urge to down my entire bottle of Remeron. I would do it if only I didn't know that it won't kill me and will therefore be a waste of about 40$. Pathetic, right? Too cheap to try to off myself. Wow. More scars on my calf. More lies to tell the bf. And my laser woman. I don't care. Seeing the blood on the kleenex is somehow a form of twisted release. And the scars, a constant reminder of my weakness, have a purpose to serve as well. It's like I was outside, watching someone else do this. And now I'm watching someone else try not to kill herself. I'm sick, aren't I? I went over the lines again and again, making sure they were perfect. Another advantage of the razor blade: much more precise, much straighter lines.I can't take the pills anyways because my roommate isn't feeling well and it will upset her greatly to find me like that. Ok. Good. A reason to stay alive. That's always a plus. Right?