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After I got off the phone with my boyfriend, my eyes stung. I don't cry. Ever. The tears were almost there, and I thought to do the only thing I know of to make them stop: cutting. I could picture the knife, see the bright red blood, feel the distant pain of an open wound. But I didn't want to do it. Well, I didn't want to ruin the steps I've taken towards recovery, at least. I got up off the couch where I had been sitting, walked into my room and locked the door. I almost did it. But at the last second, I stopped. I flipped on the stereo and took my anger, frustration, and helplessness out on my body in a different way; I did sit-ups until my muscles shook and refused to do what my brain was telling them. It produced much the same effect as self-injury, but it isn't so harmful. Cutting is the easy way out. I know that, but sometimes I have to be reminded. Afterwards, I meditated for about ten minutes. You know, the whole indian-style sitting with your hands on your knees sort of deal, back straight and deep breaths. It did wonders for my mind. Once again, I realized I have control over my emotions instead of the other way around. One day at a time is all I can hope for.

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