Tag Archives: feelings

Y (oct.)

— to others, nothing
but an empty vase
to be filled
with sorrows and
worries, when albeit
i am already brimming


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.


I am too much
in every possible way.
I am anger and hatred,
trapped in black-&-white, not grey.

I am sadness and hurt,
exhaustion and fear;
first pushing you away,
then needing you near.

Feel like a time bomb
each day and night.
There is no hope left,
and certainly no light.

This year is the last one,
no need to cry.
Once I’m gone, it’s done;
just don’t ask why.

(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: 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.

TW: Free me

I loathe how miserable
you make me feel, even
when I ask you for silence.
You say it is
because you care, but how
can love be what drives you
when you disregard my screaming?
I am choking
on your words.
They are like a noose around my neck.
You say
that you love me,
but you don’t.
You say
it’s for my own good,
but I can’t stop crying.
You say
you would never wish to harm me,
yet still I’m here, drowning
in my own pool of blood.

(Free me.)

I can’t stop writing about you // Part 3

My skin yearns for your touch. Like a fire asking for oxygen to burn, I need your fingertips brushing over my body to stay alight.

Kiss me. There are words trapped between my lips that only you should get to hear.

Push me against a wall. Let your lips rest on mine and kiss me like you are trying to steal my last breath. I’m longing for your kind of love. It’s my favourite one.

I want to explore your skin, whisper secrets as I appreciate every inch of you.

Let me fulfil your desires. The thought of your voice alone turns me upside down.

It’s okay that my heart isn’t perfect. It’s okay that it has scars all over and some pieces are even missing. After all, it doesn’t mean that I cannot love you. It only means that my love for you is seeping through my whole body, from the top of my head to the tip of my toe.
I do not just love you with my whole heart. I love you with my whole being.

Claim me as yours.
We can dance together
and my nails will paint masterpieces on your skin.

Stars are trapped within me and I cannot wait to share the taste of this galaxy with you again.

I can’t stop writing about you // Part 2

Pull me closer.
Grab me. Bite me.
If you can,
make me forget my name,
I’ll whisper yours.

Your hands on my thighs.
My teeth connecting to your skin.

If only words could express my desire, if only they could make you see (feel) how much I crave your taste.

Your skin
should be
close to
Be my warmth.

Whelmed with love.
My mind and heart
are filled with
you, only.

Closing my eyes never helped, for even if your absence might not be what I see, it’s the lack of your caress, your warmth that gets to me.

Even when I’m half asleep, you are all I can think about. Do you still remember my smile? I miss wearing it for you to see.

I can’t stop writing about you // Part 1

Nothing compares to the beauty within your eyes or the sound of your voice, for you are my favourite everything.

Kiss me. My lips have never craved anything else more than yours.
Touch me. My skin is waiting for you to set it on fire again. Let me burn.
Love me. If only so I can love you back and show you that you are my everything.

Listen. This silence is deafening. I long for your voice to make it disappear, to have your laughter around me at all times.

My skin still remembers your touch, it’s aching for your hands to caress again, to have your heat pressed against me.

I try to breathe in and breathe out, yet all I manage are sighs of longing, I-miss-you-s and I-wish-you-were-here-s.

Without you, air no longer feels enough to keep my lungs going.