Tag Archives: actuallyborderline

01:14

Once again, instead of sleeping, I find myself wide awake; stuck in front of a blank page that is begging me to fill it with words, to paint a picture of the mess within. The voices, the screams – they all need to be heard, need to be written down, and yet I’m hesitating, still. Writing used to be what allowed me to go on, however as of late, words have been slipping through my mind like sand through fingers. The connection I’ve used to adore and fight for has left my heart and soul. Each word feels misplaced, wrong. I wish I could find an excuse, someone or something to accuse, but all there is left is my own reflection in the mirror.

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20:24

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.


(untitled)

Your words,
spreading like wildfire,
set each fibre aflame.
The smoke,
engulfing my insides,
is suffocating me with shame.


Do not.

BPD is killing me.
Once again,
[Don’t touch me.]
rage, so violent
[Don’t come close to me.]
hatred, seething through these veins
[Don’t talk to me.]
bitterness, too venomous to ignore
[Don’t be here.]
are running through my pores, sticking to my skin –
[Don’t touch me. Don’t come close. Don’t talk. Don’t be.]
leaving a trail of
fire
[Don’t.]
behind. If only tearing
my body apart,
[Don’t.]
exposing these insides
[Don’t.]
helped for more than mere minutes.
[Don’t.]
Yet these minutes
[Don’t.]
are keeping me alive.
[Leave.]


Tonight

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.


C(over)ed in paint

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.


To whom it may concern

I am not what you need,
nothing
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,
nothing
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
God,
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
here;
not for long, not forever. My life’s
curtain is falling
finally.


Not yours (Part 1)

Years of fighting,
still not enough.
Nights spend bleeding,
this life’s tough.

Demons in these minds,
tearing us apart.
People are watching,
thinking it’s art.

Pain’s not fascinating
despite words of charm.
These bruises not pretty,
just hell’s way of harm.

Don’t turn away,
when darkness appears,
these are our lives,
these are our fears.


Too fast, too much.

I know that it’s me. I’m the one who’s always wrong, who should be punished, who is worthless and doesn’t deserve anything but rejection. But my god. It still hurts. I want to be a better person. My god. I try so hard every fucking day. But it’s just not possible. I’m a monster, I’m disgusting. I’m not supposed to be loved. The nightmare that one day e v e r y o n e will leave me WILL come true, I know it. I just do. And on the one hand I am trapped between fearing that day, fearing the pain, the burning fire from within that is trying to turn me into nothing but ashes, and on the other hand, that day might equal comfort because then I could finally leave this place without any guilt. But why wait? I might as well just get it over with and spare me the aching. Don’t I deserve at least one moment without these torturous thoughts?


Nightmare after nightmare after nightmare

I’m exhausted. Last night’s nightmares were terrible and I hate that it decided to bring up shit that already makes me feel miserable when I’m awake. Stuff like the fact that I’m not lovely or great, that everyone will leave me, that I’m just a waste of space and not worth anyone’s love or appreciation, that people surely “must” be ashamed of even having me as a part of their life, and that as soon as someone else will come along, they’ll just replace me. Because who would ever want me in their life?