My mom always tells me to write things down when I'm upset.
I always tell her I will.
I don't have the heart to tell her writing makes it worse.
Talking makes it worse.
I blog about my feelings and my fucked up thoughts all the time but it never does my mental state any good.
I never feel better about myself.
If anything I hate myself more.
It used to be only physical; I only hated the person in the mirror.
Now I hate myself as a person too.
"If you don't like it; change it"
I tried.
I have tried and tried to change the things I do so maybe I can be okay with myself but I can't.
I try to change my appearance and my style and my art and my personality.
I have tried to be a better daughter/friend/sister/cousin/girlfriend and I just hate myself more.
I don't even have any pretty poetic bullshit for today because I'm just so fucking tired.
I fail at school and relationships and art and being recovered and being mentally ill.
I fail at everything I try to do or become.
I am just so sick of trying.
I am so tired and I don't think I can make myself do it anymore.
Friday, November 2, 2012
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Wednesday, October 31, 2012
It's that time of year again
Every few months something happens.
A little switch goes off in my head.
My hands start to shake.
For once in my life I feel alive and unafraid.
A voice in my head says "It's time."
So I grab a pen and start writing.
And when I'm satisfied with my poorly worded apologies I gather up my pills.
I pull my razor blade out and press down for old time sake.
I count and recount my little friends just to make sure.
Everything is neat and organized and I feel lighter than I ever have before.
Even lighter than those other times.
Because this time it feels different.
It's like I'm real but none of this counts.
Like if I do die I can still breathe and everything will be okay.
No matter what it feels like everything will be okay for the first time in eternity.
It's not like being triggered.
Being triggered could imply that one is upset before one attempts.
But this is different.
It's like my body floats away and I'm not really a person.
My eyes don't hurt and my skin doesn't crawl and I'm not overwhelmed by a thick repulsion I feel when I think about myself.
There is an absence of tiredness that feels very curious to me.
One of the only things I can always depend on is the never ending exhaustion that seeps into my bones and turns my muscles to putrefied JELL-O.
It's odd for me to feel so awake; so alive, right before I end it.
Every nerve in my body tingles.
This is it. This is it. This is it.
The first time I was hospitalized for a suicide attempt I told my doctors and mental health workers it wasn't a suicide attempt.
I told them it just felt right.
Like when you decide you want to be a lawyer or an artist.
You feel like this is something you could see yourself doing.
I could see myself dying.
I would drift off to sleep and my heart would stop.
Of course I also figured that maybe things wouldn't go according to that plan.
I just thought I'd try it; I'd try being dead.
"Whatever happens, happens."
A little switch goes off in my head.
My hands start to shake.
For once in my life I feel alive and unafraid.
A voice in my head says "It's time."
So I grab a pen and start writing.
And when I'm satisfied with my poorly worded apologies I gather up my pills.
I pull my razor blade out and press down for old time sake.
I count and recount my little friends just to make sure.
Everything is neat and organized and I feel lighter than I ever have before.
Even lighter than those other times.
Because this time it feels different.
It's like I'm real but none of this counts.
Like if I do die I can still breathe and everything will be okay.
No matter what it feels like everything will be okay for the first time in eternity.
It's not like being triggered.
Being triggered could imply that one is upset before one attempts.
But this is different.
It's like my body floats away and I'm not really a person.
My eyes don't hurt and my skin doesn't crawl and I'm not overwhelmed by a thick repulsion I feel when I think about myself.
There is an absence of tiredness that feels very curious to me.
One of the only things I can always depend on is the never ending exhaustion that seeps into my bones and turns my muscles to putrefied JELL-O.
It's odd for me to feel so awake; so alive, right before I end it.
Every nerve in my body tingles.
This is it. This is it. This is it.
The first time I was hospitalized for a suicide attempt I told my doctors and mental health workers it wasn't a suicide attempt.
I told them it just felt right.
Like when you decide you want to be a lawyer or an artist.
You feel like this is something you could see yourself doing.
I could see myself dying.
I would drift off to sleep and my heart would stop.
Of course I also figured that maybe things wouldn't go according to that plan.
I just thought I'd try it; I'd try being dead.
"Whatever happens, happens."
Monday, October 29, 2012
Kindness
"Kill them with kindness."
I cannot handle kindness.
I cannot handle hugs or love or caring gestures.
I can't handle the pages that people dedicate to making other people feel better.
The words that they lace with their love of humanity and the goodness in people hurt.
They physically hurt.
I don't know how to react when someone is nice to me.
My first instinct is to cry.
To break in half and let my innards spill through the cracks of the floor because the pain is unbearable.
When someone tells me I am ugly or that I am a worthless excuse for a human being I can see where they are coming from.
They barely sting.
But when someone tells me that they would set themselves on fire if it made me happy or do something for me completely undeserved and not even asking for anything in return I want to rip my heart out and hand it to them.
I want to tell them that I would pull my flesh off inch by inch for them.
That I do not know how to show appreciation for comments like that.
I do not know how to accept their loving thoughts without a few gallons of self loathing.
I struggle with the words and I don't believe I could ever properly convey how much these gentle warm hands that people reach out for me to hold onto make me want to die more than anything else.
I cannot handle kindness.
I cannot handle hugs or love or caring gestures.
I can't handle the pages that people dedicate to making other people feel better.
The words that they lace with their love of humanity and the goodness in people hurt.
They physically hurt.
I don't know how to react when someone is nice to me.
My first instinct is to cry.
To break in half and let my innards spill through the cracks of the floor because the pain is unbearable.
When someone tells me I am ugly or that I am a worthless excuse for a human being I can see where they are coming from.
They barely sting.
But when someone tells me that they would set themselves on fire if it made me happy or do something for me completely undeserved and not even asking for anything in return I want to rip my heart out and hand it to them.
I want to tell them that I would pull my flesh off inch by inch for them.
That I do not know how to show appreciation for comments like that.
I do not know how to accept their loving thoughts without a few gallons of self loathing.
I struggle with the words and I don't believe I could ever properly convey how much these gentle warm hands that people reach out for me to hold onto make me want to die more than anything else.
Counting
I am unsatisfied with the numbers in my life.
191 pills stashed (just in case).
Over 500 cuts and scars cover my body.
I have a BMI of (at the very least since I haven't weighed myself for weeks) 23.1.
I am above 130lbs but probably beneath 140lbs (I refuse to verify this with an actual weigh in).
I have gone at least 96 hours without sleeping at one time.
I have spent eight years loathing myself.
I have spent all eight of those years harming myself in various ways.
I spent seven of those years indulging in eating disordered habits and behaviors.
And still counting.
I'm always counting.
The number of people who remain in my life.
The number of people who have left my life either by choice or by a cruel twist of fate.
I count the number of seconds I spend wishing I was someone else.
I have lost the numerical value a long time ago.
The number I have left on my existential clock.
The number of moments I have wasted.
The number of years I have spent wasting.
Really though these numbers should mean nothing to me.
They are just numbers.
But these numbers rule my life.
They rule my thoughts and have complete control over my emotions.
They are the measure of my worth.
My value as a person written clearly in the amount of things I've done and accomplished.
Written in the number of lives I've touched.
But the positives ran out a long time ago and I'm treading in the negatives.
My value can't really decrease anymore but I feel as though I should get the credit for all my mistakes and all of my short comings.
All of them should be tallied least I have something I can say I'm good at.
These numbers are swirling around my brain and they keep my eyes locked open.
These numbers chase the breath from lungs and lodge themselves into the fleshy tissue of my throat.
They will choke me.
I will suffocate on all of my failures and die an agonizing slow death that I see fit as punishment.
I don't know how to measure my life in anything other than the moments I can not possibly bare to remember.
191 pills stashed (just in case).
Over 500 cuts and scars cover my body.
I have a BMI of (at the very least since I haven't weighed myself for weeks) 23.1.
I am above 130lbs but probably beneath 140lbs (I refuse to verify this with an actual weigh in).
I have gone at least 96 hours without sleeping at one time.
I have spent eight years loathing myself.
I have spent all eight of those years harming myself in various ways.
I spent seven of those years indulging in eating disordered habits and behaviors.
And still counting.
I'm always counting.
The number of people who remain in my life.
The number of people who have left my life either by choice or by a cruel twist of fate.
I count the number of seconds I spend wishing I was someone else.
I have lost the numerical value a long time ago.
The number I have left on my existential clock.
The number of moments I have wasted.
The number of years I have spent wasting.
Really though these numbers should mean nothing to me.
They are just numbers.
But these numbers rule my life.
They rule my thoughts and have complete control over my emotions.
They are the measure of my worth.
My value as a person written clearly in the amount of things I've done and accomplished.
Written in the number of lives I've touched.
But the positives ran out a long time ago and I'm treading in the negatives.
My value can't really decrease anymore but I feel as though I should get the credit for all my mistakes and all of my short comings.
All of them should be tallied least I have something I can say I'm good at.
These numbers are swirling around my brain and they keep my eyes locked open.
These numbers chase the breath from lungs and lodge themselves into the fleshy tissue of my throat.
They will choke me.
I will suffocate on all of my failures and die an agonizing slow death that I see fit as punishment.
I don't know how to measure my life in anything other than the moments I can not possibly bare to remember.
Sunday, October 28, 2012
Wondering
I've been thinking a lot about time lately.
How much passes and how much is left.
I've been thinking about experiences and memories.
The moments we create would they feel the same if we relived them?
Would the people we met still hold the same brilliance; the same shine as they did on the day we first laid eyes on them?
Would the jokes still be funny or would they lose their magic?
When we experience new things we see them with wide open eyes and after a while their hold on us fades.
Our hearts feel differently about those moments.
It's like something that once meant the world to us is now worth nothing.
The feeling of being so deeply in love with someone; loving them for every ounce of who they are, and then suddenly losing sight of why you began to feel that way in the first place.
One moment you're life is filled with so much promise and you are living and breathing and loving every second.
The next minute you are crumpled like a used tissue on your bathroom floor covered in vomit and blood and wondering where you went so horribly wrong.
Everything is so fragile but we never really see that until the bones of our lives and feelings and memories are crumpling to dust in our palms.
"You don't know what you got 'til it's gone" takes on a world of new meanings when you apply it to everything you have ever loved and will ever love.
Because tomorrow I could be happy and healthy again or maybe I will die in three months from now.
Or maybe Lukas is only meant to be a blip on my time line when I want him to be here for the duration of my life.
Maybe he will be my whole world.
One day someone will feel as though you are the air they breathe and the ground beneath their feet and everything that has ever mattered in their life will no longer hold a 1000 of your value.
And maybe one day that person will lose sight of you and why you were their source of being.
I feel as though I cannot trust the things I feel and think.
Everything feels so fleeting and maybe none of it maters anyways.
I feel so incredibly confused about life and love and time and memories.
Everything is hurting me tonight.
Its a night where all my beliefs coming crashing together and I wind up with a jumble of thoughts that barely cohere and are almost laughably unintelligible when typed out.
My thoughts are toxic tonight and I fear that if things continue like this I don't know what will become of me.
Hang in there is a scary phrase when you can't remember what you should be holding onto.
Should and shouldn't begin to lose meaning when you are staring down into an orange bottle and reasons-to-stay are turning into reasons-to-go.
Life begins to lose meaning when you only see the inside of your four blank bedroom walls for months on end.
Living doesn't seem to hold the same wonder as it did when you were ignorant and the world was still kind enough to tolerate.
Sometimes you get so tired that sleep will not cure your exhaustion.
Sometimes you get so hungry that food can't satisfy the growing emptiness inside of you.
Sometimes you feel like giving up and you look at your life and you loves and talents and short comings and mistakes and everything that has ever happened that you can remember and you wonder.
You wonder what is keeping you here.
How much passes and how much is left.
I've been thinking about experiences and memories.
The moments we create would they feel the same if we relived them?
Would the people we met still hold the same brilliance; the same shine as they did on the day we first laid eyes on them?
Would the jokes still be funny or would they lose their magic?
When we experience new things we see them with wide open eyes and after a while their hold on us fades.
Our hearts feel differently about those moments.
It's like something that once meant the world to us is now worth nothing.
The feeling of being so deeply in love with someone; loving them for every ounce of who they are, and then suddenly losing sight of why you began to feel that way in the first place.
One moment you're life is filled with so much promise and you are living and breathing and loving every second.
The next minute you are crumpled like a used tissue on your bathroom floor covered in vomit and blood and wondering where you went so horribly wrong.
Everything is so fragile but we never really see that until the bones of our lives and feelings and memories are crumpling to dust in our palms.
"You don't know what you got 'til it's gone" takes on a world of new meanings when you apply it to everything you have ever loved and will ever love.
Because tomorrow I could be happy and healthy again or maybe I will die in three months from now.
Or maybe Lukas is only meant to be a blip on my time line when I want him to be here for the duration of my life.
Maybe he will be my whole world.
One day someone will feel as though you are the air they breathe and the ground beneath their feet and everything that has ever mattered in their life will no longer hold a 1000 of your value.
And maybe one day that person will lose sight of you and why you were their source of being.
I feel as though I cannot trust the things I feel and think.
Everything feels so fleeting and maybe none of it maters anyways.
I feel so incredibly confused about life and love and time and memories.
Everything is hurting me tonight.
Its a night where all my beliefs coming crashing together and I wind up with a jumble of thoughts that barely cohere and are almost laughably unintelligible when typed out.
My thoughts are toxic tonight and I fear that if things continue like this I don't know what will become of me.
Hang in there is a scary phrase when you can't remember what you should be holding onto.
Should and shouldn't begin to lose meaning when you are staring down into an orange bottle and reasons-to-stay are turning into reasons-to-go.
Life begins to lose meaning when you only see the inside of your four blank bedroom walls for months on end.
Living doesn't seem to hold the same wonder as it did when you were ignorant and the world was still kind enough to tolerate.
Sometimes you get so tired that sleep will not cure your exhaustion.
Sometimes you get so hungry that food can't satisfy the growing emptiness inside of you.
Sometimes you feel like giving up and you look at your life and you loves and talents and short comings and mistakes and everything that has ever happened that you can remember and you wonder.
You wonder what is keeping you here.
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