Therapist is worried about the prolonged stronger suicidal thoughts and asked if there’s any way to describe them and I mentioned that above all, they are like a screaming voice within my chest. Except that that voice is more like a thing that belongs to a demon that’s trying to claw its way right through me and it hurts hurts hurts
I’m twenty-fucking-six and it’s been more than 10 years and I’m still dealing with this bullshit and I’m just beyond exhausted?? I’ve tried everything, I’ve fought, I’m still fighting every god damn day, but tonight is just particularly shitty. I can’t breathe properly, can’t fall asleep, can’t think straight. I’m just looking at this hopeless reflection of who-ever-the-fuck-I-am and wondering what the point is. And nah, I don’t need anyone telling me some sort of comforting words that won’t do me any good, I need my best friends to be there for me with a hug or need them to hold my hand for awhile or sth because I’m lonely and heartbroken and fucking frustrated.
I’m overwhelmed by the desire to write while fighting the knowledge that no amount of words will be e-fucking-nough which in turn makes me feel frustrated and nauseous. I can’t even write or type fast enough to match the thoughts running through my mind, so instead I’m just stuck with hopelessness because what’s the fucking point.
I feel (way too) torn and miserable and empty. My moods jump back and forth from furious to unhappy to disgust to self hatred to fear to pure suicidality. Why am I bothering with staying when everything is too hard and I feel like I am no one, like I’m nothing. Years of mental illnesses, years of chronic pain, of everything getting worse and worse and worse, and yet I still don’t see a point. Perhaps I’m just a space filler of some sort without an actual personality or self. I jump from one to another the same way I skip from mood to mood during particularly bad BPD days. Nothing feels real, but it still hurts. It’s like someone set fire to my skin, or stabbed my chest, making it incredibly heart to breathe. I wish I’d get a break. I wish I could breathe. I wish I wish I wish.
I’m in a bad place in terms of my mental illnesses. Things have been getting so much worse again and it’s hard to get out of bed, to do the things I need to do. I’m still managing work-related things, but it doesn’t feel like it’s worth much. Arguing with my therapist about that is futile. “Of course, you cannot see it. But I’d say it’s pretty amazing given your circumstances”, is what he keeps telling me. But it doesn’t matter, does it? My best friend told me that I shouldn’t give up, I’m doing so much, putting in a lot of effort in my job & university – “Are you doing all of that just to give up?” I don’t know. No. It’s more of a safety blanket. This way it may seem like everything is okay – “don’t worry, never worry about me, I’m fine, take care of yourself” – but you know, it’s difficult to explain, in a way. And tbh it doesn’t matter, does it? Nothing matters. Day after day I seem to be falling more and more; I have no sense of identify, I can no longer distinguish between my demons and me. I am nothing. I am no one.
Above all, I am tired. It’s been so long. Too long.
Blood is staining my hands, pure vodka running down my throat – the bitter taste leaving a painful trail behind.
I am alone.
I am no one.
I am nothing.
Tears may be falling down my face, yet why should anyone care.
I am no one.
I am nothing.
Even spilling red is nothing but a sign I lost.
Why keep fighting when I am not wanted.
Why keep living, breathing.
“There are better off without you” – right?
I shared the following already on my art-related instagram (@ notebooksofarts, my personal one being @ othertypist) as well as on my tumblr, however, I feel like it actually also belongs on this blog. Especially because it’s been awhile since I shared anything on here.
Tried painting again, but it didn’t work out. Instead I spent my time stuck in my head, now left with a hand covered in paint and a mind messier than before. So I’ll just share some of my current thoughts:
when I say that living with mental illnesses is a challenge, I’m obviously understating the circumstances. Each step is pure exhaustion, there are days when I can’t get out of bed, when I feel like something is pulling me down (down, down, down — six feet under.) From one moment to the other, it’s impossible to breathe; in the next it’s like I am no longer here. Living with those demons is painful. Right now, I can’t even find the right words to describe them in a way that would satisfy me, but I know that, unfortunately, there are many who know what it’s like. Currently, my BPD is acting up the most, leaving my mood, myself – me – torn apart into pieces. When I’m stuck feeling like this, it’s like my skin got burnt all over, each touch is painful, each slight caress too much. I wish there was a way to really explain what it’s like, to make others understand that there are too many days when I fear people being near me, while at the same time needing them to be there. Days when I am nothing but a fire breathing dragon asking to be held, and above all, days when I have no idea who I actually am.
Nausea, exhaustion, pain. I’m tired of feeling this way, of fighting each day & night these terrible thoughts. I hate this body – not only because it’s disgusting, but because it constantly hurts. What is it like to go through your days without each step, each breath you take, each slight move hurting? I can’t even try to imagine that; it must be soothing.
The more I think about how awful my mood is (and how nothing seems to work to improve it), the worse it gets. It feels like there’s something stuck inside of my chest that’s trying to claw (scratch, push) its way out of me, making it difficult to breathe.
I hate that, next to everything else, I also feel like I have no idea who the fuck I am and that most of the time I cannot recognise my own reflection or even feel like I’m real. The pain, the bad, awful thoughts, the haunting demons following me around are there, are real, yes, but what about me? It’s like I’m not in this body; I’m here, but at the same time I’m not. I’m trapped somewhere else and can’t get out.
It‘s Thursday afternoon already and I feel beyond miserable. My back, head, and joints hurt incredibly much, making it difficult to concentrate on anything at all. The deadline for a sort of exam alternative is on Monday and I haven‘t managed anything yet despite trying. As soon as I sit down to work on it, I get confused and come up with seemingly 10 different ways to solve the tasks, none of which seem to be the actual right one.
I don‘t want to care about uni anymore.
I feel like I‘m way past my due date. I should have managed my BA in three years, should have been done in 2014, but by now it‘s 2016 and I feel worse and still hate myself. I‘m stuck with flashbacks of times long gone and more often than not, I catch myself thinking about my younger self/selves.
I hate the fact that it‘s been more than 10 years of this, I hate that even after all these years I still can’t say that fighting is worth it.