Silence

I hate quiet.
With the absence of talking or music everything is louder; the noise of my fan seems to fill the room until I can't breathe.
It hurts.
Physical pain is brought upon by complete silence I'm sure of it.
Silence is one of the worlds worst tortures; endured only by those who commit the worst of crimes.
You are in your own head and I know that place isn't comfortable right now.
I know that when you get quiet; when you stop voicing things to me even small little things, that something has gone wrong.
Very wrong.
But how can I fix it?
How can I pull you out of your head and hold your hand the way I want to?
How can I make you feel needed and loved?
I know you feel incredibly small; insignificant, but I do not know how to make you feel like you are important.
Rather, I do not know how to show you how important you are.
When my life dangles on a thread you are the one that pulls me back onto solid ground.
Your smiles are my anchor when I'm lost in my sea of despair.
How can I show you what you do for me?
It hurts to sit on the sidelines.
To watch you struggle with your thoughts.
I know that feeling.
When you are WRONG.
PATHETIC.
WORTHLESS.
FEEBLE.
DISGUSTING.
UGLY.
When you see yourself as the soul reason the people around you are suffering it's not exactly easy to believe anything positive about yourself.
And why should you?
Because I say I need you?
But what of everyone else and what if I decide I don't care about you anymore?
I know that.
Those questions you can't answer.
Those hateful words that circle your head.
The ones that rarely ever ring true.
So as I struggle to get my thoughts out; tell you I love you in not so many words, the silence takes over.
It steals my voice and suffocated my thoughts.
We both sit here in our misery struggle for words or thoughts anything to make us feel as if we mean something to the person on the other side.
But we come up empty handed.
Because you cannot see how perfect you are and I see none of myself.
I just wish I could hold your hand; make you feel not so alone in your pain.
You really aren't alone.

I hate dreaming.

It's hard to talk about these things.
I hate being honest with myself.
I hate allowing myself to remember.
I hate myself for it.

"It's hard to stop,, you know?"
There was this girl that was in inpatient and outpatient therapy with me.
Both of us were in the psych ward for a suicide attempt.
She was abused sexually like me except her abuse went on for six years.
Her father is in a New Jersey prison.
He will never be allowed out of the state and he cannot live within 100 miles of her.
She told people.
She got charges pressed.
I didn't.
My therapist knows about the rape.
He knows it went on for four years but he doesn't know who it was.
He doesn't know that I live with him.
When this girl and I were in PHP together(we'll call her Andy) she broke down in therapy.
She talked about her abuse.
Later when we were waiting to get picked up she told me and another girl more.
We were talking about relationships and sex.
I told them I hated anything sexual.
I hate being touched and I NEVER touch myself.
Andy looked embarrassed.
She said that she did and then said "It's hard to stop,, you know?"
And there was the ugly side.
The truth I never wanted to admit.
The reason why sex feels so wrong and disgusting to me now.
The reason I can't stand being touched and I feel dirty all over.
Because I had enjoyed it.
Because after a while it stops hurting.
Your body doesn't know it isn't consensual.
It doesn't know it isn't supposed to feel good.
So when it stopped I was confused.
Not only because one day he was on top of me pushing and grunting and the next he sat there like nothing happened.
But because a part of me had gotten used to it.
A part of me thought that it was normal and got used to that feeling.
That part of me craved that feeling.
I hated myself for it and I still hate myself.
So at night when he was supposed to be crawling into my bed and he didn't I'd wonder where he went.
When he was supposed to be knocking on my door when no one was home I'd wonder why he wasn't on top of me.
Before I'd go to bed at night I'd create that feeling for myself again.
Replacing his prodding sweaty hands with my own.
And after I had realized what had happened I was mortified.
Disgusted with every part of myself.
I would go to sleep with a sticky sweat pooling on my stomach refusing to let my fingers go beneath the blankets.
I'd wake up with out any pants on.

My dreams are always memories.
Memories or what could happen if he came to my room again.
And every morning for a long time I'd wake up with sticky fingers repulsed by my own existence.
I was afraid to sleep over other peoples houses; afraid of what I would dream about.
I remember pulling my hair out when I was little.
Clawing at my stomach and thighs with stubby nails or shoving food down my throat until I felt sick.
It was my way of self harming.
My way of trying to externalize how disgusted I was with myself.
Of course when I found out about cutting and broke a picture frame during a panic attack the only thing that seemed right was to pick up the long jagged glass and slice into my flesh.
Starving seemed right.
And when I got there purging seemed right too.

There was this night at Kelsey's house we slept on the floor in her living room.
I woke up in the morning because her brother was sitting with her on the couch talking.
After a few minutes her brother asked if I had a nightmare.
I told him no and asked why.
"You were pulling your hair in your sleep and it looked really painful. And well..."
At that point Kelsey told him to shut up.
I never really understood the look she gave him.
I do now.
I only pulled my hair during those dreams.
Because when my brother was laying on top of me pushing into me he would wrap his hands in my hair and pull as hard as he could.

"It's hard to stop,, you know?"
Yes I knew.
I knew very well.
Because now even when I don't ever touch myself consciously, I'll dream about it.
I'll be sitting in a room tapes of my abuse playing behind me.
A college room with people studying to be some type of doctors in front of me.
And I'm not facing the "movie".
But I can hear it.
And I can't help it when my hands move on their own accord.
And I'm sitting in the front of the room with strangers staring at me watching my touch myself to tapes of my own rape.
I'm crying and silently begging myself to stop.
To run.
But I can't because I still feel the weight of him on top of me.

Stability is a joke.

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.