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.
Tag Archives: about me
Misery is filling the air around me, my lungs inhaling it, slowly, but steadily.
It’s a usual night, quiet, yet not peaceful; dry, yet too warm to be able to breathe easily. As I’m writing these words, darkness has started settling over the horizon, leaving nothing but a pitch black view and an inkling of gloom. If I were to get up, the tiny window would allow me to see my wretched reflection; a mirror of who I am, say others, while a lie is all I can observe.
What is it like to know who you are?
To not constantly question your entire being, to feel like something else but a heart that has been shattered over and over again, a soul that is beyond repair, broken and incomplete — without hope?
I don’t know.
Demons are constantly whispering into my ears, living inside of me, taking up every inch. There’s no more space for “me”, whoever that may be; perhaps there never was.
And even when I try to reach out, to fight, to find myself, peace, sanity, — comfort, there is still nothing to hold on to.
There’s only darkness.
(I am alone. I am no one. I am nothing.)
Perhaps Death would be a kinder companion.
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.
I am not what you need,
but darkness, a mere rain cloud.
Used to be called sunshine,
but even that had to end some time.
I am not what you need,
but an anchor pulling you down.
Wished I could be an angel, if only
for you, yet this demon cannot fly.
I am not what you need, but my
I wish I was, wish I could be.
Still I fear that as much as I’d love
to be your happiness, I am not.
I am not what you need, but I am
not for long, not forever. My life’s
curtain is falling
Let me be one of the stars,
I no longer wish to remain.
Being on this earth is agony,
staying is nothing but vain.
The night sky above is calling,
it’s reaching out for my soul.
These demons living within me
are trying to swallow me whole.
And I know I promised to resist,
yet this heart is weary of time.
My bones are heavy and cold
as I write down this final rhyme:
I’ve fought each gloom and light,
sought peace and quiet in art.
But the ink that used to define me
tore me step by step apart.
My chest hurts, I’m tired, and exhausted of my mind. I spent the whole day with suicidal thoughts and because that apparently wasn’t (fun) enough already, I’m stuck with more thoughts of misery. I know I am a burden, and I know, my God, I fucking know that I’m not lovely or great or worth a lot (if anything at all), but it still doesn’t make feeling insignificant and replaceable any easier. I’m tired. I’m upset. I’m all over the place. I just want to burn my skin and open it, just want to feel something else beside this misery, these constant thoughts of suicide. I just want to stop feeling so utterly t o r n apart.
Torn between too many things, I have no idea who the fuck I even am. BPD is tearing me apart more and more, and I no longer have the energy to fight it. I just want to give up (on fighting, living). My therapist told me on Friday how huge it is that I’ve managed to go to work these past weeks, that I managed to deal with university, that I managed to stay alive somehow despite me being stuck in a severely self-destructive mood. But you know? None of these things seem to matter; they are not enough, and neither am I. Even words are not enough; at least not enough to describe these feelings stuck inside of my bones.
My thoughts are racing so much and my hands have a difficult time trying to catch up with them, to write them down – to get them out. It feels like I am trying to run away from myself, from all the darkness within me; because once again it’s threatening to consume me, to swallow me whole. I try to run and run run run run, but I swear it’s never enough. Parts of me have already become permanent residents of the world my demons call home. Perhaps this is my wake-up call, my reminder that it is too late, that I should have run faster, back then, years ago.
“It’s too late, too late, late late late” are the words my mind continues to repeat over and over again; leaving me stuck wondering why I’m still holding on.
I feel like nothing but a mixture of words, fragile, merely kept alive by thoughts that are both, my support and cage. When I look into the mirror, I am trapped. I ask myself – who am I – who are you? Perhaps I am not real. Perhaps nothing is, and it’s time to wake up; even if waking up means falling asleep forever in this world.
Maybe that’s the only way to get out.
You know, the fact that I feel utterly low and suicidal has at least one perk this week. I’m neither anxious nor overwhelmed; I simply feel calm. The horrible and awful thoughts (especially the ones related to my body) are still there and keep the fire of self-loathing ablaze, but other than that? It’s like I’m not even in this body. I’m somewhere far away, nothing can touch me, nothing can hurt me. I’m not me. I’m no one, I’m nothing. Even seeing my minor’s study advisor tomorrow means nothing. Because whatever happens, it doesn’t matter. Whatever happens, I’ll be done and gone soon anyway.
I want to say that I’m okay, alright, just fine – peachy, but the truth is that I am not. I’m broken, miserable, just nobody & nothing; I’m longing for Death. I swear I can see Him right there in front of me, not quite reaching out, yet I can hear Him counting down the days, hours, minutes, and seconds I have left on this earth.
My time is running out.