I am not eating again until I'm getting into treatment.
That was the worst idea ever.
Also I love you all.

What the fuck was I thinking I can't do this.
What if they don't admit me because I'm not mentally unstable enough to meet their criteria?
What if the other patients think I'm just full of shit?
What if I go there and I hate it and still have to stay for a month?
What if I go there and they keep me longer than a month?
What if I get diagnosed with an eating disorder?
They will take it away from me and force me to eat and I can't handle this.
What if I don't want to get better what if I'd rather die?
Why did I ask for help?
I'm such a fucking idiot I can't do this I don't need help.
I don't deserve help I think I'm going to cut every inch of my skin.
I'm fucking done I can't deal with this shit.

I wish

It would be so much easier for me to ask for help if I felt justified in my own misery.
I feel like a fake.
I feel as though even though I'm siting here awake for over twenty four hours with new cuts and scabs and burns decorating my left arm and hand and left leg; I feel as though I am not mentally ill enough to deserve treatment.
I also cannot find a treatment center that does long term treatment.
I can't do short term inpatient or out patient.
I am drowning in a pool of my own vomit, blood, and tears.
There isn't time for me to sit here in my head stewing over how bad of a mistake this was.
Given a stay in short term inpatient I will come back and slip right back into my life.
In outpatient you might as well not even bother because I will be self harming everyday all day whether I have groups or stay home.
I rip myself to pieces every night to beautiful melancholy lullabies.
Beautiful songs that simultaneously dig long clawed fingers into my flesh and sooth my panicked heart with every lyrical line.
These songs claw their way to my very core and freeze there making it painful to move.
Painful to breathe.
Painful to think.
My life is woven between the chords of Blind by Train.
My screaming is lost; silently falling out of my mouth and rotting in a puddle of freshly spilled blood, among the sweet words that make up the song Rubik's Cube by Athlete.
My whole existence is wrapped up in horrifically sad songs.
I am comfortable here.
I am so comfortable with my razor in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
Because "you can get used to a certain kind of sadness."
And I have.
I have not only gotten used to and grown accustomed to my depression, I have grown to like it.
It is the soul burning light off which I live.
My depression has become something like a lover to me.
That lover may abuse me and tell me I'm worth nothing to them but I am completely enamored with everything that they are that I cannot possibly imagine leaving.
I am in love with my mental illness and I do not know a life other than sick.
I cannot possibly imagine a life in which I am not drowning in my own self destruction.

I'm not sick enough.
I'm not sick enough to warrant help.
I do not look sick.
I do not deserve help.

Treatment

I'm getting a little out of hand.
My cuts are getting so much deeper.
I'm tired and I scare myself.
I'm incredibly impulsive and I would rather kill myself than go to school.
I'm going to try asking for help for once and seeing how it works out.
Wish me luck I guess?