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.
Tag Archives: mental illnesses
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.
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.
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.
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.
after all this time,
I truly am nothing but my illnesses.
Just a tired soul, waiting for the end.
This week truly hasn’t been one of my best. I relapsed a lot and if I had to describe my mood, I’d say that it seems to be stuck in between ‘low’ and ‘so low, I can almost taste the fire of hell on my lips’ which is probably why I spent most of it in bed or feeling too paralysed to do anything else but staring ahead of me, getting lost in my thoughts and whatever bit of darkness can be found in it.
Yesterday, however, I was forced to go out to see my new (I lost count of how many I’ve had) therapist, after I’ve tried for months to convince my insurance company to cover the costs for my treatment. To be honest, there isn’t a lot to say about it yet, except that so far he seems more capable than any of the others I’ve had in my life. I don’t want to go out on a limb and say that I’m hopeful, though. After all, it’s been only one session so far, and who knows, maybe after the first five probatory sessions, he will decide that he no longer believes that he can help me as so many others have already. (A hopeless case. That’s what I’ve been called too often already.) Or maybe, I’ll be the one putting my foot down because his treatment plan isn’t the right one for me, after all. We’ll see.
Regardless of that, I must say that it was exhausting to go back to talking about things that have happened in my life, and things that are making it currently unbearable. Of course I am used to thinking about those topics, I’m used to writing about them and finding some comfort in written words, and yet all these memories flowing around inside of my head seemed to have drained me of all my energy yesterday. I could barely stand after I left his office because my whole body had tensed up too much, and each fibre of my being was screaming in agony.
I certainly hope that with time, it will be easier once again.
there are already things that I appreciate about my new therapist. It’s not only that he promised to take care of things with my insurance company, but also that he’s actively listening, that he isn’t interrupting me or simply adding off-the-rack comments such as ‘That’s sad.’ and ‘Oh yes, that’s understandable.’ One of the things I am appreciate of the most, however, is that I’m allowed to talk about my suicidal thoughts without having to worry that I will be threatened with forcibly admission back into inpatient treatment.
There is something relieving about the ability to talk about the darkest thoughts and plans without always having to make sure that I’m not sharing too much for my own good.
My mood keeps getting worse and worse (again), and I’m not entirely sure why. Maybe it’s because my birthday is coming up, or maybe it’s because university is starting officially on Monday and I have no courses whatsoever or maybe it’s because I should already be finished with my Bachelor instead of still working on getting things done. I don’t know. Tbh I just feel really tired. I have no motivation or energy whatsoever and would prefer staying in bed all day, doing nothing but taking one nap after the other. It sucks. Thoughts keep racing through my head 24/7 and it feels like everything inside of me is just going too fast and too slow at the very same time. It’s been awhile since I’ve felt this way and it’s been a very long time since I’ve felt like I had no idea who the fuck I was anymore. Perhaps I shouldn’t worry about those things at the moment anyway. Who cares if I feel nothing but loneliness? Who cares if I feel lost and empty? Who cares if I feel like I am drowning inside of me and there’s no way for me to be saved?
I wish I was able to focus on more important things.
I wish my mind would just shut up.
Empty, yet not hollow.
The heart in my chest
is beating, the truth
I cannot help but swallow.
Your eyes are focused on me.
I‘m not blind, I‘m aware
that you speak of worry, but
your redemption I cannot be.
You speak of caring.
Yet at times like these,
this darkness consuming me
is all I am wearing.
For me this isn‘t a game.
This wall of protection is
not for show, it hides the
ghastly monster that I became.