Carry Me

I don’t really understand why I keep on procrastinating when I know it won’t do me any good.

I just sent in an essay that I could’ve been done with weeks ago, but I chose not to type it, because I spent time on the Internet instead.

I have another essay due next month, and it even came with checkpoints (!) but I chose not to do them, and I haven’t even picked my topic yet, not to mention my arguments, my thesis, or the introduction that was required.

I spent time on the Internet because it’s easier, I spend time watching and rewatching shows and films because it makes me feel better momentarily, I read and reread books because it helps me flee reality for a while; only to have reality come crashing back in.

I spend time watching myself in the mirror; it doesn’t matter if I laugh, because it’s hysterical; it doesn’t matter if I’m neutral, my eyes are screaming, my mouth has a downward tilt.

It’s all for nothing, at least it feels like that right now.

I don’t know what to do. I know in the long run what I want to do with my life, I practically have my entire future planned. What to do to achieve that? No idea.

I know what I have to do to achieve it all, but I don’t know how to do it.

I know it requires discipline, that I don’t have; it will require countless hours of writing and typing and researching and studying, but I don’t have the strength.

I went to the doctor’s today, and I’ll have to take my meds for at least another eight months, and I just don’t want to.

I can’t any more, it’s slowly killing me. I can’t with the weight gain, I can’t with the inability to lose weight, I can’t with the temporary amnesia (that makes me forget to take my meds), I can’t with the twitching, I can’t with anything any more.

It’s just all too much, and I just don’t want to.

I want to cut again, I want to take apart my flesh, to slice myself open and watch me bleed.

I haven’t done that in a year or so, and I heal so fucking well it’s hardly detectable.

My scars aren’t enough. I want to starve myself, I want to skip two out of three meals, I want to cut myself until I’m only gashes and scars. I never want the wounds to scab, I want to cut in old scars just to see the blood. I want to fuck people only to feel wanted and desired.

But that’s not me any more.

I don’t know why or how I stopped, not really.

I know I kept going a bit after I got help, I know I still thought about it. But the fight was torn out of me, I didn’t have the energy to fight, so I just slept for six months.

Only got up to eat, piss, shower and put more films on the playlist in VLC.

It’s a bit silly, I want to be in school, I even enjoy it, but the homework and the essays and the research is killing me. I just want to be in my vegetable state and sleep all day again.

Or go back to cutting and sleeping with insignificant men and not eating because it actually made me feel a bit better, believe it or not.

I felt comfortable in my body because I was thinner, and people were actively attracted to me; they approached me. they were usually older men, statuary rape in some countries; but not in  Sweden, and my mum didn’t care.

She thought it was good that I went out, put myself out there and befriended people, because she didn’t when she was younger. But I think she would cringe if she only knew how many it’s been.

I take after my dad when it comes to sexual partners, but I know the name of everyone at least I can still remember them.

But it’s all been for nothing, now no one wants me and I fall in lust and like with people I can’t get and it’s too much.

Enough of this fucking incoherence.

I’m sorry.

But do not ask the price I paid,
I must live with my quiet rage,
Tame the ghosts in my head,
That run wild and wish me dead.

– Mumford and Sons

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About thezonesystems

Former miserable, confused teenager - now sad and confused trans adult(ish)
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