Tag Archives: mental disorders


i’m having a hard time; once again, i’m stuck on my own – with these thoughts, with these voices, these struggles, these demons. i don’t know if i’ll be able to go on, i don’t know if i care. i feel like i should, but with exhaustion seeping through these bones, it’s too..difficult?

i don’t know.

there are things i still wanna do, but i’m suffocating. there are only so many hits i can take. what if i’ve finally reached my limit?

will you let me go?


Y (oct.)

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


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.


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
behind. If only tearing
my body apart,
exposing these insides
helped for more than mere minutes.
Yet these minutes
are keeping me alive.

(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.

(cut lips)

It’s been almost 10 years. 10 years of suffering. 10 years of fighting a war against myself that I won’t ever get back. The mere sight of that number makes me feel utterly nauseous and I can feel my knees getting weak. These illnesses have invaded and ruined every part of my life and me, and yet I am still expected to be able to look ahead with hope and positive thoughts.


I still remember the first few years of this misery. How I begged and cried and hoped and tried to get better and yet nothing helped, nothing changed. I just kept getting worse. What if that’s all I’m here for? To get worse and worse and worse?
I’m tired of feeling like I’m choking.
I’m tired of listening to ‘stay strong’s and ‘you can do it’s because quite frankly, I just don’t have the energy anymore.

Hopefulness is a rare feeling inside of me; most of the time I just feel utterly nauseous and miserable and low. The fact that I’m seemingly unable to handle life, my responsibilities and my demons certainly isn’t helpful in that regard either.

Time is not on my side. Not now, not ever. And it’s exactly that fact that keeps me in this sea of pure despair.

Maybe I just need some time off, some time away from everything and everyone to decide what to do, to decide, once and for all, if going on is truly what I desire or if leaving is the best option.