I'm thinking of Jackles "Dirty Little Lies" song, and fitting the words "Bloody Little Lines, Bloody Little Lines" - and here's why:
I want to cut myself. Very, very badly. Not because I like the pain, but what it does for me. It brings relief, lets the pressure out, and helps to refocus on things in my immediate environs, while there is a quelling of the irrational mind that has become it's own self-feeding demon.
When I feel the pressure of the blade, it starts to balance the pressure I feel inside. When the pain of the cut comes, there is a release of the pressure, a relief from the pressure, plus a bonus, if I am lucky. Sometimes the pain can kick up the faint embers of the dying mania which led to this depression, and I can stoke them a bit higher in an attempt to climb out of this hell hole. [Sung to tune of Spinal Tap's "Hell Hole" with the 6" Stonehenge monument :-).]
Watching the blood ooze out and sometimes trickle down makes me think of how the evil stuff in me is finally leaving - the guilt, hurt, depression, anger, paranoia - and an empty shell remains. This empty shell I hope to fill up with positive things, but sometimes I am just in a haze, a fog of unreality and disasociation such that I am on automatic pilot, not understanding fully the events that occur around me. Yes, I am less intelectual and capable, my memory is chaotic, but it is still much better than it was.
And perhaps the real pain can overcome the fake pain, leaving a hole that is empty, but not alone, filling with what I want, eventually coming around to a more clear state than I was moments ago.