Recovery was always a pretty little lie

Life is so tiring now.

Stronger?

I don't feel like it.
I don't feel like me actually.
It's almost like I'm getting better but when ever I catch myself making plans I get scared.
What is this life?
This isn't mine.
My life is filled with darkness.
Sometimes it's horrifying but it's comfortable.
I can live in the dark but all this light seeping through the cracks is making me nervous.
I don't want to let people in.
I don't want to get older.
I don't want to get better.
I don't want this.
All the implications of those beams of light are everything I am so afraid of.
Expectations.
Responsibilities.
Relationships.
Happiness.
Recovery.
Life.
This is not something I can face.
Maybe something I'll never be able to face.
But all the sudden I turned around and there were those little hopes.
Those dangerous little thoughts that said maybe this won't be so bad.
The thoughts and feelings I can't afford to have.
I can't allow myself to believe that life isn't something to be afraid of.
The moment I do I get used.
Abused.
Tossed to the side of someone else's prose like a piece of useless trash.
Only a minor detail to get the plot moving in their lives.
But then what happens in my text?
Complete chaos.
My world turns upside down and rearranges.
Everything is WRONG and in DISARRAY.
What is recovery?
Is it actively working towards wellness and health or is it waking up one day and realize your life is heading towards a future.
A future you didn't plan on living to see.
I don't know who this person is that wakes up and goes to school and eats and sleeps.
Who is it that wears my skin and talks with my voice?
These things she does and says makes others think she's getting better.
That I'M getting better.
But in truth someone else took over my brain and I'm sitting in the dark corners desperately trying to hold onto sickness.
My only comfort is my sickness and if I lose it I have to face everything.
I have to open my eyes and look at a world that I've been hiding away from.
I didn't ask for a purpose.
I didn't ask for smiles and laughter.
I didn't ask for interacting with people and forming relationships that will ultimately fail.
I didn't ask for all this hopefulness and wishing.
Optimism is not only foreign in my life but completely unwelcome.
I do not want to get better.
"Stronger" isn't me.

Terrified.

If there was a day in the past year that I was contemplating suicide the most that day would be today.
Nothing has ever looked more appealing.
Especially considered tomorrow I start the first day of senior year.
Tomorrow is expected to be a day that I learn how to grow up and deal with responsibilities.
I am considering hanging myself in my closet.
But for once in my life I'm trying not to be a coward.
I'm trying to pretend I have more of a future than planned suicide attempts.
I'm going to go into school walk into the guidance office and tell my counselor that I can't deal with this full schedule and I need to just take the bear minimum to graduate.
Then I am going to go through the rest of the day with fake smiles and try to not break down.
If I so much as see Tommy I'm done.
I cannot take the pressure of tomorrow and seeing that piece of shit's face.  
I cannot deal with the torment I'm going to suffer his year because I have more than my fair share of scars.
Visible scars.
Scars that exist because of self inflicted wounds I accumulated over eight years.
It's officially the eight year anniversary of my self harm.
The seventh of my disordered eating.
My twelfth year of school, fourth year of high school, and the year before my life changes so drastically that it won't even resemble my life anymore.
And I want nothing more than to stay in bed and hope that I never get older.
Hope that all of these changes don't happen and I die before I can get the chance to fuck everything up even more.

Thinking

I'm sitting behind my computer in my darkly lit room trying to gather the courage to face tomorrow.
I'm trying not to think about school starting on Tuesday.
Trying not to let the looming date for graduation bother me.
Trying to focus on things that are happening now rather than my ever evident lack of planning.
My future.
I never wanted one so how am I supposed to start working for it?
One day I just woke up with the knowledge that I'd have to work for things because I was expected to want them.
Expected to want to go to college.
Expected to want to get a job and possibly have a family down the line.
Expected to eat and sleep and do my work.
Expected to stop cutting and starving and hating myself.
Expected to get up brush off my past and insecurities and just keep going.
The problem is I can't.
And the closer I get to knowing that everything is moving on and leaving me in the dust the closer I am to walking backwards over that edge.
Backwards into the land of insanity and pills and gaping wounds that never seem to heal.
Backwards to the hospital or a grave if I succeed.
And it's daunting.
Knowing that other people are dealing with life and their issues so much better than I am.
Knowing that there are people who; despite holding a deep hatred for themselves, they still accomplish things.
I look at them in awe and jealousy wondering how.
How after all that time and energy put into their deep routed hate do they still have the ability to get up in the morning?
How are they able to keep walking when my knees buckled long ago under the pressure?
How are they able to do what I am not?
With each passing day it gets worse.
The suicidal thoughts were under control for a while.
Now they have tipped and are spinning wildly about while I try and catch my bearings.
A hold on something other than the gruesome fantasies.
To grab onto a thought that doesn't involve taking my double edged razor blade to my face; doing a little 'remodeling'.
How can I sit in class and look people in the eye and tell them that I am fine when I so clearly am not?
How can I face these people?
How can I keep moving when the weight on my legs has increased to the point of breakage?
There is bile on my toes.
I have small rips in the back of my throat.
My knuckles are sore.
My chest aches and I want nothing more than to go to sleep and never wake up.
Maybe I'll have peaceful dreams.

I get really scared

When someone I love hurts I don't know what to do.
I freeze up.
I choke on my words and they taste like bile in my mouth.
How am I supposed to help you?
What can I do to make you see what I see in you?
Is this how it feels?
The panicky feeling of helplessness that creeps into your chest as you watch them all drown; is this what it feels like to love someone?
When you are standing on the sidelines of someone else's story banging on the glass that separates you from them, how are you supposed to feel?
How are you supposed to reach out to them?
If you are sinking down; being eaten alive by quicksand, how are you to pull someone else out of their depths?
How do you make someone feel as if they are everything and the only thing that matters in your world when they would rather die than see who they are?
I feel as though these questions have occurred to those around me and I am not alone in my dread.
I understand now what it feels like.
Standing in front of someone with a medical licence the words suicide attempt tumbling out of their mouths.
You stare at their lips and suddenly forget how to breathe as the heart monitor beeps away in the room behind you.
The drip of the IV in your loved ones arm is haunting.
But its worse.
So much worse.
When you are sitting on the other side of a computer monitor and you read the words: Everything is wrong.
When you see someone you adore slipping into a place you know all too well and you are desperately trying to save them but you are unable to;
The feeling can best be described as terrifying.
They have fallen off of a very high cliff and you are keeping them up by the tips of your fingers.
They keep telling you to let go but you won't.
Not until your shoulder dislocates and cuts off the blood flow to your hand.
You are crying and begging them to just let you save them and they just smile up at you with a sad look in their eyes.
As if your feeble attempts to save their life is only reminding them of why they stepped off the edge in the first place.
You would die for them a million times over to see them happy but nothing you do is making them want to keep fighting.
There are people and events in their life that act as long bony hands.
Those hands rise out from the screaming sea below and grab a hold of your precious person.
The pain in their life pull against you and no matter how hard you fight to keep them with you, you know you are fighting a losing battle.
How is it so possible to love someone so much?
This love fills you up and breaks you open and leaves you bleeding on the bathroom floor.
You are crying and screaming and no one will come to save you because you cannot save them.
And you are both dying.
Slowly you are rotting away in your meat carcasses and one day someone will find you nothing but a pile of putrefied flesh.
It hurts.
When a piece of you; a person who holds your world in their hand, is withering away right in front of your eyes and you are powerless there are no words.
Nothing will make this better.
You are going to watch them wilt until you have shed your very last petal.

PSA???

Another post.
But so far(and I don't know if this is it for you guys) but a lot of the people on my reading list and tumblr dash have been talking about telling a therapist about some type of sexual abuse that took place?
And I just figure if I hadn't said anything about it I should.
I live in Ohio and the laws are different for all the states but
I was completely misled when I heard about the laws on 'reporting' sexual abuse.
In therapy you are usually told everything stays in this room EXCEPT:
1. if you are being abused(CURRENTLY)
2. if you are abusing someone who cannot defend themselves(elderly/animals/small children, and I think in major cases basically if you are abusing ANYONE)
3. if you are homicidal
4. if you are actively suicidal(some therapists/psychologists get their degrees out of the toilet mind you)

Circumstance number one is incredibly important in this case.
If you are currently being abused I advise you to TELL SOMEONE.
Especially a figure such as a therapist or you know someone of legal stature.
Things might happen to change your living situation and it could possibly be pretty scary and you might have to face whether or not to pursue a court case but the outcome will most likely(there are horror stories but there is with everything) be better than the horrific abuse you are facing now.
Now when it comes to sexual abuse cases in which you are not currently being abused you need to know something else.
If you live with your offender and you state this even if you are not currently being abused,
that person could be(depending on the circumstances and whether or not they seem 'threatening') under Megan's Law have files charged against them and be placed under the sex offenders registry.
And your living arrangements might change.
This isn't particularly a bad thing depending on your particular circumstances. 
But I feel as though I should make this post for people like myself who have suffered from years of sexual abuse and not only still encounter their abuser but are living with them and have to interact with them daily.

I could not tell my psychologist who my abuser was for this specific reason.
My psychologist also suggested(by this I mean he took my Dad into a session one day and said basically "hey why don't you tell him!" without really asking me about it- mind you some people don't get their psychology degrees from the sewer) I tell my parents about this abuse.
So now my Dad looks at me as though I'm fragile which is weird but eventually he'll get over it.
And that is MY Dad. That doesn't mean that if you tell your parents they will regard you in any way differently than they do.
Anyways yes you should probably not be stupid like me( not that I'm saying everyone who DOESN'T is stupid) and look up your state or providence's laws on sexual abuse/sex offenders before you talk to anyone.
I myself was going to tell my therapist who had abused me when my mother brought up the fact that hey maybe that would be a very fucking horrible for other parties*.
Anyways yes this has been a PSA of sorts.
Yeah sure.








*NOT THAT YOU SHOULD EVER CONSIDER ANYONE ELSE OR FEEL OBLIGATED TO PROTECT YOUR ABUSER. This is my case. Which is not your case. Which it may in fact benefit YOUR case to tell who the person/piece of shit is who ever dare motherfucking hurt you like that. I'd kill them for you if I was ignorant and didn't realize that maybe some of these sack of dicks may actually be family members or important people in your lives!

Desperation

I just purged vitamin water and macaroni and cheese chunks in the back yard.
I seriously spent five minutes out there and I got out only half of what I ate.
In about three more minutes I'm gonna go back out pretending I have a phone call.
This is what my life has become and it's sad.
I almost fell over into my own vomit pile.
I don't even have anything witty or sarcastic to say this is just how shit everything is now.
My fingers smell like bile.
My throat is sore but my mind keeps saying not sore enough.
The little voices in my head keep telling me to purge until I can't stand.
It was the equivalent to a small bowl(I filled a huge bowl so I could eat the whole pot but only got done about 1/3 of it).
My hands are shaking so bad right now it's hard to type.