Ugly Exterior with Ghastly Truths Inside

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.

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The Worst of the Relapses

It’s getting worse, and I have no idea what to do to stop it.

It’s still very shallow, but they are numerous. I have four different places where I put them; my thigh, my hip, my shoulder and my arm.

The ones that can be seen are easily explained, but I don’t know what to do if someone was to find out. I need someone to talk to, someone who won’t ask me to stop the first thing they do; I need someone who can just hold me and someone who can just listen.

I used to talk to my cousin about this kind of thing, but she is only irritating me nowadays.

She’s one of the people who gave me the flu at Christmas, and she will just blurt stupid things all the time.

Approximately a year ago, a friend of mine borrowed a suit case from her, and he couldn’t give it back to her personally because of some complications. She received the address at which her suit case was located, but she did nothing to retrieve it.

Today, she asked me if I knew where it was, or where she could find it. I told her the details I could remember and she asked “don’t you have it written down? It was your friend you know” like it’s my fault she didn’t get it last year.

Needless to say; I can’t tell her about this. All she asks me to do is to exercise if I hate my body so much, but I can’t because of complications with my legs, and no one seems to get that.

I had a P.E. teacher who still didn’t believe me after I cried during class, I’ve had multiple doctors telling me it’s all in my head, therapists that tell me they can’t do anything to change it. I can’t exercise, sometimes I can’t walk, sometimes I can’t even get out of bed because it feels like my knees are shattered, because my hip feels like it’s dislocated.

My current P.E. teacher is thankfully very understanding, and lets me take breaks when I need them.

I’m just so angry with everything, my therapist and doctor somehow lost two of my three diagnosis so they are not treating me for PTSD and general anxiety disorder at all. This is so fucking wrong I can’t even begin to describe it. In their “haste to treat my depression” they “lost them on the way from evaluation to treatment”.

It pisses me off a lot, they change the subject when I bring up the cutting, they tell me my meds will take care of my wishing to kill myself, they want me to tell my dad that I don’t want to eat so that he can force me.

That’s not what I need, I need someone I can talk to; but they’ve used up all their chances, I’m not giving them another shot at this.

I need to change doctor and therapist ASAP, but I have no idea how to ask for that; I’m easily manipulated when it comes to my mental health. People can tell me I’m not worth a try, and I’ll believe them. People can convince me that certain forms of self harm will help me towards recovery, and I’ll look at them as if they hold all the answers.

It’s killing me, all of this. It’s stripping me of the self control that I’ve had, it’s slowly smothering me.

I need to read something heart breaking, I need to watch something that’s going to make me cry like a baby, I need it all, I want it all, but I don’t know what to do.

Books are too long, I need this kind of fix now, I’ve exhausted all my films and they don’t affect me like that any more. I can’t listen to music because it doesn’t affect me like that either. I need to cry a lot, like a little baby, I need to get this out of my system before I cut where people can see, before people understand what I’m doing to myself.

I need to study, but I’m too unfocused to do anything.

I need someone to think of me as insignificant and fuck me, no strings attached.

I want alcohol, pot, acid, anything that can take reality away from me for a while.

I have a bottle of champagne that I got for my birthday, I might just drink it tonight.

Damn it all.

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Lies and Imagination

So I am not actually over my crush, I just tried to get over her, and almost succeeded.

She asked me in class who my crush was, and I couldn’t lie to her, so I told her (but didn’t fail to mention that I thought it was a friend crush and not a real crush, she proceeded to ask if I was sure, and I answered I wasn’t) and she took my hand and said she liked me.

I don’t know what to do, really. She’s been a bit absent, but I’m going over to hers on Friday for a movie night with some other friends, and tomorrow is Valentine’s Day and she’s getting the card.

I guess I’ll have my answer tomorrow, but I’m still scared shitless of the possible rejection.

It would be awesome if she liked me back, I would take her out on dates and cook her dinner and all those sickly-sweet things people do when they like someone.

I just really like her, and I want her to feel as special as I view her.

On another note; I think I might fail one of my classes and I’m very beat up about that, but I haven’t had time to type anything up about that because I have a short story due on Friday, an essay due on Monday plus homework all the time.

My birthday was good though, I got things I wanted and my mother remembered things I had mentioned in passing.

I’m going out on Saturday to a kpop club here in Stockholm, and as far as the three other club nights have gone, I think this will be splendid.

As said before, the battle’s been lost, but I haven’t done anything more to myself, I’ve only scratched at the old marks and that’s been enough until now.

I’m pretty stressed and I just don’t want to do anything any more, but you already know that.

I’m thinking about starting a series of blog entries where I speak about my life experiences in more detail, but as if it’s a story, I could pull that off with more time on my hands.

There are a lot of things I wish I could do, but there’s too little time, really. I want to vlog, but I don’t have time or the energy (and I’m afraid no one would watch it, and that would kill my spirit), I want to write fiction but school is slowly eating all my inspiration…

It’s also fact that everything I write is horribly sad and irritation, but I just want it out of my system, I want it all out there, I want people to read it, but I think no one wants to.

I’m just tired of everything, I’m tired of myself and my hardships, and the fact that I can’t climb the mountains of irritating things.

I want to lie down forever and never move, but that’s not socially acceptable. There are things I want to do, but it would probably be better if I finished school, but school is crushing my spirit.

Fuck all of this, I just don’t want to any more.

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Thoughts and (Some) Progress

I still feel like an absolute failure, like I’m useless, and undesirable, but at least I am over my crush.
I don’t know what to call it, I think the reason for getting over her might be because I was spiraling downwards so much a few days ago; because I feel useless and pathetic, and won’t spend time longing and yearning after someone I know doesn’t think of me in that way. Thing is; she has been dropping hints that I’ve interpreted as friendship-like feelings for me, and nothing else. Funny thing is that I’m at least 90% ok with that.
It’s always nice when someone likes you back, but I think our friendship is worth pursuing instead of a romance.
Platonic love all the way. I guess I’ve grown up at last.

On another note; the battle is lost. I gave into temptation; but it wasn’t severe, and that’s all I’m going to say about that right now.

I turn nineteen in 22 hours by the way. It feels so weird, especially since my classmates are turning seventeen this year. I sometimes forget how old I am, sometimes I feel like I’m ancient, but mostly it feels like I’m two years younger than I really am.
Then I state something that is obvious to me, or tell a joke that only I get, or reference something I believe everyone should be familiar with; and I am met with empty glances, hollow eyes, and sometimes frowns, because they don’t understand. It is a bit annoying, but I try my best not to be judgmental.

Screw it, back to lost battles; it felt so good, going back to that kind of thing again, even if it was brief and shallow. It has calmed me significantly, and I feel a lot more at ease. I thought about bringing razors to school; but I thought better of it. People would become suspicious if I suddenly started to visit the lavatories in the corridors. I hate public restrooms, and my friends are very much informed of this fact.

I will be receiving one out of five books I’ve ordered within a week, the others won’t arrive until the second week of March, which has me a bit bummed out; but I can manage the wait since they’re all John Green novels.

This is a very calm entry; compared to my previous ones. My relapse had some positive aspects at least, even if there are going to be some very disappointed people if/when they find out.

But I digress; I have to get up in four hours.

Tschüss

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The Battle is (Almost) Lost

I keep imagining cutting.
Long, shallow gashes up my legs.
Short, deep wounds on my shoulders and arms.
Eventually the wounds get deep enough to bleed for ages, get long enough to be obscene. They get deeper than I’ve ever hurt myself before.
Cutting initials into my flesh, names, eventually scarfications. Pretty and petty patterns adorning my skin.
Eventually no normal tissue left to cut, so it leaves me to cut deeper into scars to feel that thrill, to feel the exhilaration, to feel the pain.
And the blood, the blood is the best part. Letting it drip, run, stain clothes and sheets, smearing it.
Everything I used to do, the drinking, the painkillers, the pot, the insignificant sex.
All of it. I want it all. But I am too cowardly to take it, too scared to let people down, too afraid of what people might think, say, expect.
It’s chanting in my head, you are worthless, you useless piece of shit, kill yourself, they will rejoice, they all want you dead, and I believe them, it. It is screaming at me, if pills can’t help, what will? If talking won’t help, shut up. If writing does nothing to help, off yourself.
What am I to do about it all, when nothing helps, when the meds only changes things for a while, but makes me gain weight like an idiot? How do I fight a battle against abhorrence for myself when my appearance is the last thing people think about when they try to get me better? It’s negligent of my therapist and doctor not to take that into account when assigning my dosage. How am I supposed to get better when they’ve only fueled my self hatred?
I haven’t always been this fat, this bitter, or this lonely.
There used to be people who woke up in the morning and the thought of me was the first thing that came up, people used to cancel plans to hang out with me.
Now people forget me easily, I can talk to someone one week and they’ve forgotten me the next. People cancel plans with me because they have friends that are better than me.
I am as insignificant as the men I’ve slept with, as the men I’ve let fuck me into the mattress. All I want is for one individual to notice me for what I’m worth. I’m not much, I’m not extraordinary in any way. I only ask someone close to home to realise that I’m existing.
I have enough friends on the Internet to last me a lifetime, and I am forever grateful to them, but I need someone at home who can like me for who I am when my defences are down. When I’ve built them bridges and vantage points so they can observe the cracks is the façade, see how I’m not as naïve as I seem, see the humour, the sarcasm and obsessions for what they really are.
I want someone I can laugh with till I cry, someone I can cry with till I laugh, someone I can live with till my death, someone I can die next to.
Someone who won’t judge, someone I can be myself around, someone I can easily call and they will throw themselves out of the door to get to me as soon as possible.
But people like that already have people they love unconditionally. People already have the best people in their lives, they don’t want to get to know new people that intimately because they already have people they love.
I have people I love, there are people I would kill for, but I don’t think they would do the same for me.
That hurts, it fucking hurts to know that people want nothing of me when there are better people around. I’m only a possibility when there are no one better.
I am the spare, the person to go to when you want something, when you have a secret you just must tell but don’t want to spread.
Who else to go to than the person who doesn’t have anyone to tell, who else to go to than the person who is so full of people’s mishaps and misfortunes and secrets they don’t know where theirs begin and others end?
Most of the time, I think about cutting because then no one can dismiss my sickness, no one can wave me away and say that I’m on meds and shouldn’t complain.
I want to destroy my flesh so people can understand how irrevocably torn up I am inside.
It kills me that people don’t get it, or when they pretend they understand just to be able to gossip about it to someone else.
I don’t understand anything of it, I just want people to listen, to help me laugh it off once it’s off my chest.
I want to be blunt with people but it’s not appreciated, and that kills me too.
Everything is killing me except me, and soon that won’t do.
That kills me too.

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done to the doneth power

I can’t that two former crushes are online and I can’t muster enough courage to talk to them because everything sucks and they are all in happy relationships and I’m not.

Oh fuck, just stop it. Just quit.

It’s no point.

Bye.

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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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