Graphic Self-injury trigger
I had a strange dream. Ginny and my boss were teaching a class. It was in my old high school, but everyone in the class, including me, was college age. My boss announced the law changed and no one was allowed to use special education accommodations anymore. I happened to be giving a presentation when they gave the announcement. I flipped out and started crying in the middle of class. (In real life, I used special education accommodations.) I was embarrassed and ran out of the class to the bathroom. I cut badly. Blood flowed too quickly for me to stop it from spilling onto the floor. It scared me a little bit.
Suddenly Ginny was there and the stall door was cracked open, even though I’d locked it. (This was undoubtedly a carry over from eating disorder inpatient treatment.) I stood up and flushed the bloody toilet paper. I left the stall and washed my hands, but the blood flowed all the way down my leg and pooled on the floor. I glanced at Ginny.
“Well, that is bad.” She said.
I don’t remember cleaning it up in the dream. (In real life, in high school, I carried a razor blade in my pocket. My impulse control was even worse back then! That progress from middle school were I cut in class. Anyway, in high school, I accidently sliced my finger in the cafeteria line and blood dripped on the floor before I could stop it. I left it there, hoping no one noticed.)
Then I was taking a test. The classroom was in one of my favorite college professor’s offices. Every test was different. You had to copy song lyrics from memory. Some were easy like “Row, row, row, your boat…” Mine was a Beyoncé song. I don’t listen to Beyoncé. So, I failed. I went to go cut, but then I remembered Ginny demanded I give her my blade earlier. I was mad at her for making me give her the blade. She knew me too well. I’m a rule follower and respond favorably to concrete directions. So, I gave it to her.