My pain and my lies

*Trigger warning: quite violent content, if you do not feel safe, do not read*

I sent an email to Doctor Livio. Sometimes I do so, just to share some things that cannot wait until the next session. I shared with him the last entry I wrote, since it is a good picture if how I feel at the moment. It is very hot here, about 30 degrees, but I am shivering. There is a thing I did not mention to Doctor Livio. I said to him that I would like to hurt the ones I love, but well… he is a sort of father for me. So, he is also someone I love. And today, during our session, while I was speaking to him, I had fantasies about what I would like to do to him. He is maybe convinced I have no fantasies on him, he is above it all. Well, no. I had more fantasies on other people because they needed more love than he needs. Let me explain. Livio is untidy. I like it. I had a therapist, in the past, who was absolutely focused on order, his office was clean and perfect, and this perfection gave me a urge to dirty it with his blood. This does not happen with Doctor Livio, because he office is pure chaos so that I feel at ease. Anyway, today I was staring at his arms, and I was thinking about letting a blade run across them. I thought about him smiling at me, while I was doing it. For a moment, I thought I could reach him.

I am not focused on Doctor Livio. He is a good therapist, he did not make me dependent upon him. We dig into my past to understand my present, in order to shape a tolerable future. Since I was a child, I always had torture and murder in my mind. I used to scratch my skin, and I used to draw only torture scenes. Every time I had someone as a friend, I wanted to beat him or her. Maybe this is the reason of my isolation. Who wants to be beaten. I started cutting myself at a young age, and this was the strongest kick ever. There is no drug comparable. Not that I have experience with drugs, I just tried hashish but nothing more. But the kick that my blood gives me is stronger than everything, and the one that the blood of someone else could give me would be the highest pleasure on earth. The more the person whose blood I see is loved, the stronger the kick. This is how I work.

While I was in hospital, about 10 years ago, I attacked a male nurse with a knife. I always said, as an excuse, that he had provoked me, that he had told me that I looked like a beaten dog. It is a lie. He did not provoke me on that occasion, even if he had been quite ironic on other occasions. I wanted his blood because I had sort of fallen in love with him, not sexually, just on a mental level. It was a big story, they ended up calling the police, I was brought in isolation and even there I asked to speak with that nurse, and I told him that I loved him. My memories are blurred, but as a reaction on his rejection I started beating the walls, so hard that my hands started bleeding. I covered the walls with my blood, I refused medication so that I got an injection. Three of them came in, pushed me on the floor and gave me an injection.
The point is, I did not want to hurt that man. My intention was to give him love. My peculiar kind of love.

I apologise for this entry, sorry to all of you who read. I am just in a very bad shape tonight. I will stop here because I do not stand myself any longer, and I cannot stand writing any longer.