It’s so fucked up how much I know about life, love, and just everything. So many facts and so much understanding, but no direction. I have yet to figure anything out about myself. I’m blinded.
I do not value these people that share my blood. They haven’t seen me bleed. I lay my trust and my heart and my future in my friends. The ones I’ve spent years searching for. Blood is thicker than water, but my blood is thin and I bruise easily. I can’t take another lash of her whip, when I bleed…
I don’t know, nothing feels real right now. The keys against my fingers are so light and accurate and I’m floating. Morning doesn’t exist, for neither does midnight. I can hear the calculating thoughts of children and the elderly searching for light, but I am numb.
are not the same as a swing set.
even when you’re up,
you’re embarrassed of
and when you’re down,
the winds are even stronger
than when you’re flying.
I’m happy most of the time, but not enough.
Most of the time to me just means that I laugh every day now.
I want to be genuinely happy.
I want to be genuinely happy.
I want to be genuinely happy.
I want to be genuine and happy.
Sometimes I look into the mirror, and I’m happy with what I see. Not always, but sometimes. Usually I’m happiest straight out of bed. Extensions out, hair somewhat messy, no makeup, wide eyes. But I get ready anyways, because I need assurance. I need to be told I’m beautiful, and I’d prefer it from males. I sometimes feed off adoration, but that isn’t my only reason. My best friends will tell me I have crust in my eye, but not if I’m just always generally unattractive. They like me for what I am, and that’s all. Sometimes we think things about ourselves, good or bad, that are generally untrue. I don’t need to be told I look good to feel good, I just want to know I’m an attractive person inside and out because I don’t already know.
The letter I probably won’t send to my (ex) therapist:
I’m walking wounded, but I’m alive and I’ve got a destination.
I used to talk about how I would just do and say things without thinking about and considering that consequences even existed. I was convinced when I woke up the next morning, things would be the same.That stopped for a long time. All summer, I was sane and logical. I was on top of things. The sun wasn’t always shining, but I wasn’t letting that get to me. That stopped, too. And the morning didn’t come for three days. I tried to cut him out of my arm, but I think he was hidden in my artery. For a second I thought maybe he was in my heart, but I knew that wasn’t right either. Maybe he was in my head, but I felt him in my arms. I don’t know how a person can go so crazy for only a few days, but i did. You don’t understand, I don’t understand. I was just sobbing, choking on my bathroom floor. I just kept telling him to get out, but I couldn’t feel the release. Usually cutting my arm and letting the blood escape is a similar feeling to taking a breath of air after you were so convinced you were drowning. Or finally taking a pee, haha. My skin just needed to breathe. But I didn’t get the relief, that release. He was still in there. I haven’t seen that much blood in maybe 20 months, I didn’t want to clean it up. But I did, just not off my arm. I didn’t want to die, but the only way to get him out was to cut that big bulgy vein. The one I spend 20 minutes staring at sometimes, just thinking. I’ve never cried like that either. I’ve never been that uncontrollable. And everyone who doesn’t even know those details is telling me to let him go. But he was the one to keep me sane. Was. He voiced I kept him from killing himself a few times in the past week after Courtney broke up with him. But when I needed him most, he bailed in the worst kind of way. I was seriously OVER cutting, and I hadn’t cried since my dad’s best friend died from cancer. He was my favorite of my dad’s friends. But I just snapped back into it. I thought cutting was worthless and the thought of it made me squirm, when it used to make me ache for it. I used to be able to think about it and think about how good it would feel. Now, day 2 of having my head back, I don’t want to again. But I’m so scared. I gave him time to come around, because I needed a formal conversation due to our days of online conversations driving me into a place a child shouldn’t know exists. I’m convinced he won’t come around. I told him to tell em if he didn’t plan on it, and he didn’t say anything. Just that he understood my words. Not that he UNDERSTOOD anything, just that he read them. I can’t help but imagine him coming to my house and me being here on my back patio at night typing and smoking and he’d come up and NOT play the “I’m so sorry” card, but have things to say. I said everything I could for three days, and I have nothing left to say without a response. It’s an essay, not a conversation. I shouldn’t, but I do, feel guilty for this. i’m embarrassed and shameful that I had to fuck everything up by having problems of my own.
I stopped seeing you, what? Late February? SoI I’ve been without therapy for 7ish months. Sometimes I think maybe I should go back, but all therapy did is tell me what I already knew. The advice, I mean, was what I was sane enough to already know was an option. I need a diagnosis. I need to stop thinking I’m manic or bi-polar or what-the-fuck-ever. I have friends to talk to, I had Tommy, but I still have people. I just need to know why I have no motivation and why I’m lacking my ability to hide my feelings. I just mean, before I could put aside my worries and bad feelings when I was in the company of people, but I can’t fake it all the time anymore. I either get really anxious or I just can’t act okay. I feel so bad letting people down and ruining their days.
I feel like I should go away - to a hospital. Like a vacation. I also feel like they’re not going to take me seriously because I haven’t tried to kill myself and because I don’t REALLY want to (most of the time). Because as my scars travel down my arm, they get shallower and they don’t look suicidal - because they aren’t But I’m still not okay. And I’m still cutting. That’s a problem, right? Maybe you had some suggestions? I’ve had Roger’s Memorial Hospital’s screening number in my phone for over a year labels as .Call, but I haven’t called. Do you know much about that place? Do you have any other suggestions? I want to go somewhere that would help me, and maybe somewhere with some art supplies. hahaha. That’s definitely not my first priority. I also don’t care how far away it is - I NEED to get away. I guess that’s all I have to say. (I bet patients don’t usually write to you after they’ve gone but we both know I left with some good advice - but prematurely. I convinced you I was going to find more help, and I didn’t. I just don’t know any other professional I could talk to. I don’t want my mom to know Tommy caused this spiral. I love Tommy, and I want things to get better. I don’t want my mom to think his suicidal ways are the cause of mine because if that’s the case - I would have to get rid of so many friends.)
P.S. This isn’t some young love he’s tearing me apart bullshit. He’s my best friend. He understands me. We’re both helplessly anxious, and it’s nice to have someone who gets anxiety like I do. Nice for both of us.
I’m literally too far gone to write right now.
crawled into the woods with a razor and the pursuit of feeling.
toes in the river - cold
blade in my palm - sick
heart beats out of my chest - excitement
cut my hands to shreds,
the chill familiar stream.
i am shit, and you have a home;
the wind cries out your name.
i put my head in your hands,
but your forgot when i went:
i cannot stand alone.
the fireworks, a sign of nearby life and celebration.
“celebrate,” i called, “you’ve got everything to live for!”
live for my demise, live to see me die.
live to watch me crash, and burn, and fall.
it’s starting to rain, and i’m lost out here, sleep tight, stay warm, sweet dreams.
i cannot stand alone.
angels, ended up being ambulances.
We’re sick, fuck it. I don’t care.
We’re monsters with scars and February arms,
we’re kids, so we laugh as blood stains my sheets.
And we dance, and we dance, and we fall,
and we scream.
We’re blood brothers, we’re a secret that got out.
We’re broken glass and stitched up arms.
Pretty pink pills, turned
soft pink scars.
Maybe we were transparent,
or maybe half past dead. But
a secret’s anything but with urgent
lights and a knock at the door.
Small room, we were our own
“Oh my baby, I held you tight,
you’re still so young. Come home
come home, I miss your
smile and I’m sorry.”
And they all
cried, and we just held hands.