I am bleeding through my bandaids. I called my therapist to reschedule my first ever appointment that my parents made because I have an eating disorder and they think I need help. I called her and left this long-winded, long-stated, all-over-the-place message on her answering machine, so now she thinks I'm insane without even talking to me. And when I was done with that, I sat on the grass outside of my mom's work, on a playground meant for kindergarten kids, and cut my side with scissors, then locked myself in the faculty bathroom and cut myself again and again and again. And now I am bleeding through my bandaids and freaking out a little because I have never been more empassioned about anything than I am when I'm carving lines into my skin or when I'm starving myself or when I'm spilling the contents of my stomach inside a perfect porcelain bowl. Welcome back.