It doesn't matter in the end, you're right, whether you hurt yourself or not.
It doesn't matter that it doesn't help to hurt yourself any longer.
You counted the scars for me, and by the time you reached double-digits, I was already etherized and barely breathing.
I should have asked how many will be enough.
I was in bed last night by nine thirty, watching the porch light on my ceiling go on and off with the return and departure of neighbors. I was thinking about you. I was thinking about me. I was thinking what it means, exactly, to help someone breathe.
My cat kept me pinned to the bed, snuggled between my legs on top of my covers, pressing his slight weight into me, deterring escape into my anxious pacing (it feels such a sin to disturb cats sleeping).
Eventually, I fell asleep, and it was after four when a nightmare strong enough to wake me brought me back to my room.