Tag Archives: dying

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.


I’m not an artist.

I paint pictures on my body
in black, blue and red.
Permanent reminders
of memories long gone and dead.

This paintbrush in my hand
is all that I really need
And tonight I cannot help
but give in, concede.

I wish my story was
a happy one to tell,
but why should I kid myself?
I’ll always be rotting in hell.

(better off without me)

There was a time
when even the most honest
enquiries were met with
when your lips refused to
part, as though
confessing your sorrows
would burn your tongue.
Yet when at dawn
their forthright words met your
ears once more, when years of hardship
pierced your chest anew,
those words
you never dared to whisper
left you
at long last.

Follow @othertypist.

17:30 (1)

Trapped in darkness;
I’m not able to dig myself free.

Don’t worry, though, sweetheart.
I promise,
the blood under these nails belongs not to me.

But alas!
What do I know?
Perhaps it’s all a lie?

This body,
these words, these scars.
Perhaps just an excuse to die.

After all, maybe
I just paint these claws red
to cover up that I have
lost my head.

There are days like these

There are days like these when I wonder how it can be possible to feel so full of something, yet at the very same time so empty.

How can it be that I am right here, typing, yet at the very same time I feel like I am not inside of this body, not here in this moment, but trapped in some other universe, in darkness. Maybe this feeling of fragmentation is acting as a reminder, as something recognizing the existence of my body right here and now, while my mind is captured somewhere else under lock and key.

Breathing properly seems like a luxury during these times, and keeping my eyes open like futility. If anything it all, I’m only taking in more hopelessness, more darkness;
turning the taste of my words bittersweet.


Gave my doctor and mother a right scare because for a few minutes it seemed like my left lung had collapsed.

I’m fine now, but remember kids:

eating disorders kill you, nothing fun or fancy about them. If you see that demon coming closer to you and your life, run. Run as fast as you can and scream for help. If professionals won’t listen then tell them to shut up and to help you before it’s too late. Believe me, you deserve the help and support – regardless of what kind of ED you have. Your weight doesn’t matter.



I don’t believe I can do this any longer. I’m out of hope, out of people I can confide in. Going back there is not an option – going anywhere – inpatient, outpatient – is not an option anymore. There is no help or hope for me. My mind is deteriorating.

Years of treatment: a waste of time, money.
Years of talking, trying, doing, wishing.

I want to cry, but I don’t have any tears left. I feel helpless. Suicide used to be a way out. One of many options. Now it’s the only thing I have left. It doesn’t feel like a choice anymore. Because it’s not. It’s not in my hands anymore.

I want to cry, but I don’t have any tears left.
I want to scream.

I hate myself so much.

My head hurts.

I’m sorry.

I’m having a tough time, as always, because when I try to think about it, good days seem non-existent, invisible. I think about you only to be distracted, I drink to forget, yet I always end up in the same rotten place full of darkness. When my doctor suggests that taking too much of the new pill will shorten my life span, I shrug and put up a grin – he laughs, he knows I don’t want to be alive and that there’s nothing anyone can do about it.

When I open my eyes in the morning, I’m in pain – physically and mentally. When I look at my watch, I count the hours till I’m back home.

When I go to sleep, I pray: please don’t let me wake up in the morning.

Please let me sleep.

I can’t do this anymore.


There’s darkness inside of me. There’s pain and desperation breaking through my chest. Who am I and who do I want to be? I don’t know. I don’t know.

I want to get better, but I don’t know how. I want to be free, but I feel like I won’t ever be able to let go of this.

A life that’s only about coping and paying attention to not fall back into old habits – is that really better than what I have now?

There are days when I wonder why I ended up the way I did. Asking “why me” is futile, of course, yet it’s the only thing on my mind. Why me. Dear God, will I end up happy?

If in here ‘not getting thrown out’ is the only reason for me to end up harming myself in a more serious way, what the fuck am I supposed to do once I’m out of here. What if all the skills aren’t enough. What if my life is supposed to be all about self-destruction? What if I’m supposed to die now – what if my time has run out?


I’m dying
as I write;

I breathe. I live on.

My pen is like
a knife,
killing me softly with each word.

I’m dying
as I write.

I build a picture
out of blood.
I fill the glasses
with my tears.

Today I’m dying.
Today I’m leaving.
Today I won’t be here anymore.