Saturday, October 6, 2012


I entertain the notion of "getting help" daily.
I allow myself to debate it for an excruciating amount of time.
But if I ever did walk into the doors of my nearest psych unit it wouldn't be to get better.
I'd use it more as an escape.
An excuse.
Rachael is sick.
She cannot possibly perform as a normal functioning human being.
She is obviously broken and will need time to heal.
But recovery holds a certain amount of hilarity now.
I'm standing on the roof of a building telling people "I'm so much better now" as I toe the edge and wonder if I'd feel it when I burst against the pavement.
I stay up for days just to see the bags under my eyes.
I cut recklessly deep ten minutes before stepping into my friends car and heading to school.
I allow myself to bleed and bleed and I feel fine.
I do not feel suicidal.
I do not feel sick.
And this is when it gets bad.
The realization that "better" started happening when I wasn't looking.
That despite my frantic attempts to make myself feel like a worthless piece of shit, I smile much easier.
It scares the shit out of me.
Because if I'm thinking about getting help it means that I'm actually thinking about living to walk up on the stage for graduation.
I cannot handle breathing today if I know I will continue breathing through until June.
I cannot handle the knowledge that I look forward to things in my life.
That I am turning 18 in 15 days.
I cannot handle this.
Because when I am peering over the edge I am desperately trying to convince myself I am still sick.
I am still mentally unstable.
Because if I don't have my illness; my mental incapacity to deal with anything, I have nothing.
So I will go shower and then cut myself and rip open my infected wounds and laugh when they drip blood and puss all over my bed and carpet.
I will smile when tomorrow I look like I have been punched in the face.
I will laugh when I binge horribly and purge until I cannot stand.
I am still mentally unfit to deal with life.
So I'm gonna opt out.