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: bpd
spreading like wildfire,
set each fibre aflame.
engulfing my insides,
is suffocating me with shame.
BPD is killing me.
[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
behind. If only tearing
my body apart,
exposing these insides
helped for more than mere minutes.
Yet these minutes
are keeping me alive.
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?
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.
Getting out of bed is too much, pretending to smile is taking all I have.
I’m tired of walking and climbing through this life when my steps feel like nothing, but exhaustion. Why do I have to keep trying? I’ve died a long time ago, and this human shell of mine is impatiently waiting for its final resting place.
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.
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.