I am having some kind of neurotic breakdown.
At least I haven’t been cutting as much these past days, but it’s become deeper now, just like before I got help.
I am meeting with my psychologist tomorrow, and I am going to demand a re-evaluation so that we will know exactly what is wrong with me (and because I think it’s so fucking stupid of them to have lost my diagnoses), but I haven’t slept, I haven’t taken my meds.
It just hit me that it has been almost two years since I wrote down “emotional shut-down, check”, and I basically haven’t felt as much since then.
I am still constantly hit with waves of love for people who more than deserve it, but it’s always short lived, and I go around feeling like I hate everything all the time.
Right now it’s so bad I don’t even know where to go, I want to close my eyes because it feels like my step father is going to be somewhere in the corner of my eye, but I want to keep my eyes as open as possible because what if he catches me.
I just don’t know what to do, I have tried reading to calm me down, but I can’t sit still. I have tried watching things that used to make me feel good, as well as watching things that make me cry. Crying always helped before, I used to make myself break down at least once a month just so that I could cry it all out, but it isn’t working any more.
I’ve tried listening to the music that used to make me feel better, and I have tried listening to the music that made me cry. But the things I felt back when it was working aren’t with me any more, they are nowhere to be found.
My crush still hasn’t said anything, and when I tried to get her alone by inviting her for a coffee she invited a mutual friend, and I just think she doesn’t want to be alone with me, and it’s killing me, it’s killing me.
I did something even I thought was grotesque the other day, I made a shallow cut, waited for it to stop bleeding, then I put the razor in and just started cutting deeper within it. It made me nauseous, and I celebrated because then I didn’t eat.
What is even wrong with me.
I’ve thought more and more about just committing suicide this past week, and I bought so much alcohol that it won’t even hurt when I cut if I drink it.
But I can’t find any strength to do it, I am hollowed out and miserable.
There is one person who has managed to postpone this realisation, and I wanted to talk to them, but after starting three times (and erasing what had been written every time)I gave up and just smiled instead.
I just wanted to write, I just wanted to exist without it all being so hard, but I can’t, I just can’t any more. I just want to disappear now, I don’t even want to see all the new things the world has to offer, I don’t want to read all those books I bought, I don’t want to meet my idols, and I don’t want to live.
But I am too much of a coward to kill myself, I think.
Sometimes I intentionally go through supposedly dangerous neighbourhoods just to see if someone will hurt, rape, kill me. But they never do, they never even glance my way.
I feel like I’m too invisible, too ugly to even notice, and it feels like it’s easier to just go out and lay somewhere anonymous in the snow and just slowly die of cold.
I don’t even know if I want to hurt when I die or not.
I used to wish I would be run over by a bus, just like Simon, or die suddenly in the bathroom, like Adam, or die of a ruptured aneurysm in my brain in the shower one morning, just like Annika.
I never wanted to die from cancer, like Birgitta, or of old age, like Axel and Karin, I sometimes wanted to die from my own hand, like Richard, or from someone else’s, like Therese.
I just can’t decide now. I just want to die, because I’m alone, I’m broken and lonely, and the only people who would like me are not attainable, there are oceans between us, both mentally and physically, and I can’t deal with it. I can’t let myself feel something for people any more, because if they even reciprocate, they will eventually stop, and that is what kills me these days.
Everyone I have ever remotely liked eventually just stops liking me back, they stop talking to me, and they do things, amazing things, without me in their lives and it just hurts so much I don’t even know where to go.
I don’t even know what to do with myself any longer.
One of my teachers asked me a fortnight ago what I wanted to become when I got older, and I answered that I wanted to be a teacher, but what kind of teacher would I be? I would just think that the things pupils are taught won’t even matter, because how could I make sure someone made a difference? How could I ever make someone realise what they want to be? How could I ever make children see that what they teach them in school is valid, and important, when I know that it made me feel smaller and smaller the longer I was there?
How could I ever make a difference? The only thing I make people do is realise that I am irritating and that they should cut me out of their lives.
I only make people uncomfortable. That’s the only thing I have ever accomplished.
It is all killing me, everything makes me want to kill myself even more. Even if I have recently picked up on hobbies I had let slide, it feels like they’re all for nothing. Who am I even kidding, why am I even here, the only reason I haven’t killed myself yet is because of cowardice, it’s because I am so scared of making people confused. Not to talk about the mess.
There are days when I think that maybe I should just down all my pills at the same time, maybe I should just down them with the three litres of vodka that I have, and once I am disoriented, then maybe I can cut myself enough so that I finally bleed out.
I just don’t know anything, I don’t want to know anything, oblivion I accept you if you’ll have me, please take me away from this, erase me, let me fall off the face of the earth, just let me die, please let me die.
I have tried “thinking of things that will make me want to live”, but I can’t do anything else than listen to that little voice that says “who the fuck cares?”.
Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me, the part of me that actually cared about things is gone, burnt out, dead and forgotten, because who cares about it anyway? Who the fuck even cares nowadays. I don’t even think I want it back, I don’t want it anywhere near me, I want it to keep its distance if it ever tries to come back.
I just didn’t think I would live to be this old.
When I was fourteen, I thought that I would never live to see my eighteenth birthday. I am nineteen today, and I think I’ve lived at least one year too long.
I might not be dead yet, but I think I’m warming up to the idea of finally dying.
It’s beautiful, actually. It has lifted a weight from my shoulders.