Tag Archives: disordered thoughts

(late night ramblings)

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.


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.


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.


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.

(Trigger warning) May, some thoughts.

Usually I’m able to, at the very least, recognise most of my irrational thoughts, except these past weeks I’ve been having even more of those and I’m starting to have a very difficult time recognising them as “not genuine” because from first to last they simply ring true to my (unstable, disordered, sick, whatever you want to call it) mind.

One of them is that I cannot help but consider me dying as the most reasonable course of action. After all, I’m a burden (I know I am, I’m not blind) and whenever I try to look at my life from the outside, it just seems like that’s the only way life will work out for everyone involved; never mind that it doesn’t seem to ever get really better for me anyway.
(On that note, though, don’t tell me that it will because damn, almost 10 years of mental illnesses don’t just fade out and get better, because damn, almost 10 fucking years of mental illnesses means that they found a way to crawl into every ruddy crack of my life and that they’ve been trying their effing hardest to ruin it, so please, spare me those words. I know they are spoken out of kindness and the wish to comfort, but today I simply can’t stand listening to them because they sound like nothing but lies.)

Another thought that found its way into my head is that before I went into inpatient treatment, before my weight was restored at the end of ‘13 etc. I’ve been managing my life better, and in combination with other thoughts – that’s one hell of a feeding ground for my eating disorder to leech off. Because it encourages the voices in my head to tell me that going back to it “full-time” will improve things again which is such a fucked up thing to hear because in that time I’ve been dying, I’ve been severely underweight and feeling awful. I’ve been suffering so much, but STILL there are those voices in my head that tell me that back then REGARDLESS OF EVERYTHING I’ve managed to get shit done, to go to university, to work on my assignments and to be a proper students and my God, I miss being able to do those things.

I just loathe myself so much for not managing those things anymore, you know?

And perhaps the saddest thing about all of this is that I loathe myself so much, I’m willing to tear myself to shreds, to kill myself slowly if only it means that I’ll manage things on my own again, that I’ll be less of a burden for others, to make life easier for everyone else.

(tw: never mind)

Silence is like a knife
twisting within my gut.
My demons, using the break
to pull apart my mind.
Perhaps this is it. Perhaps
I should leave. After all,
no reason to stay is
a good reason to go.

tw: i feel too sad

Overwhelmed with sadness
I find it hard to breathe on.
Each day is coloured by misery
and my mind is too far gone.

If giving up was easier
and meant a lot less pain,
this sharp and ice-cold knife
would have already met my vein.

Yet as it is these scars
are as far as I can go,
to express my darkest despair
about how I feel too low.

Just a ghost. Just tired.

When I think about words to describe myself, I cannot help but reach out for those that describe me as nothing but useless and utterly hopeless. Each day is rushing past me, and each step I take seems to be too much for me to handle. I feel like I could crumble to pieces if I didn’t force myself to stay put together, if I wasn’t made out of a shell of a body that is covered in skin.

I try each day to keep going, I try each day to not give up. Heck, next week I’m even able to say that I have managed to not wear any gloves (which I needed due to my OCD) for two fucking years – and yet it’s not enough.
The fact that I’m still stuck in this misery after almost 10 years is killing me.
The fact that I will have to struggle for the rest of my life is discouraging.

Why am I even still trying?

I spend too many of my days in bed, staring at nothing in particular, feeling exhausted, feeling miserable, asking why I feel like I’m split into broken parts. These thoughts inside of my mind are driving me mad and whenever they overwhelm me, I cannot stop shaking.
Did you know that when I look into the mirror, I cannot even recognise myself anymore? It’s true. I see a face that has a hard time keeping up a smile, I paint myself “pretty” (whatever that might mean) and yet each night when I stare into my eyes, I feel like it’s not me who is looking back.
Like finally,
after all this time,
I truly am nothing but my illnesses.

Just a tired soul, waiting for the end.


This head
nothing but a vessel
for misery;
yet infinitely it cannot
be filled.
One day
it’s going to spill over
and burst,
I’m just waiting for when
it’ll get me killed.