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