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.

m:sery

This head
nothing but a vessel
for misery;
yet infinitely it cannot
be filled.
One day
it’s going to spill over
and burst,
I’m just waiting for when
it’ll get me killed.

(tw: 01:07)

Trapped inside a body
I hate, I am drowning.
How am I supposed to
survive, when the surface
is frozen solid? I will never
get out of this sea
of despair. Yet I cannot
stop trying.
I break myself.
Each hit, each cut – it’s
the only way for me to
breathe, to get a break.

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my lips are sewn shut

Words are filling up
my skin. Stories that
never escaped my lips,
are carved into me,
forevermore.
Maybe one day I’ll voice
them out loud. Yet for now
silence is my steady
companion.

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.

What if?

Every day is a battle, and every day seems to be getting harder and harder to get through. I know it’s because my mood is currently diving all the way down to hell, and I know that there have been days that were easier, that weren’t as bad, but when I spend my nights watching self-destructive memories flash in front of my eyes and my days questioning if I should eat something, if I should get out of bed, if I should continue my life or not, then it’s just a bit difficult to remind myself of the positive aspects of my life and of easier times.

I wish I could tell my mind to just put a sock in it. I wish I could tell it to think about my best friends, my very much beloved boyfriend, about the little things that make me laugh like bad jokes and videos/pictures of kittens and puppies (and all the sweet baby animals out there), but it’s just, unfortunately, not an option all the time. Things that trigger me, even if it’s just the smallest situation, seem to be getting the best of me each time, and it doesn’t matter how often I count from 1 to 10, or how much I try to control my breathing and bite my lips to keep the screaming, the pain inside; I just always seem to be standing on the edge of a cliff, swaying back and forth, threatening to fall.

They say that it gets easier. I agree. It can get easier, it does get easier, but the issue is that out of nowhere it can get horribly worse again, and if you aren’t prepared for that, if you haven’t quite learnt how to fly instead of fall, it just fucking sucks. I want to believe and hope and fight, but my God, currently? Currently I’m hopeless. Currently I’m standing in front of the mirror, hating every inch of this body, wondering how it’s possible that I’m loved. Currently I’m hearing every single voice inside of my head yelling curses at me, hitting me from each side. And my God, they say that fire cannot kill a dragon, yet what if all this time I’ve seen myself as a dragon, I’ve been nothing but a puppet in a cruel play; what if the only purpose I have is to wait till the curtain closes and my puppet masters decide to cut the strings in order to choke me with them? What if, what if, what if?

What if I’m just too tired, too old, too broken to go on?

March: an update (TW)

March is almost over already and so far I don’t have any particularly great news to share. If I look back at this month, the mere words that come to my mind are painted with nothing but agony and despair. About a year ago I was discharged from inpatient treatment, about a year ago I tried very hard to overcome things on my own, to keep up with my health and stability and yet today? Today I find myself once again standing in front of a cliff while the harsh wind is rushing past me, cutting into my skin like blades, either trying to push me over or ‘convince’ me to ‘just take a step closer to the edge’.

My eating disorder is getting worse again. Night after night I end up exercising more and more, my days are filled with thoughts about how much I should be doing later on, if I should be eating, if I didn’t already have enough and above all: if I should get rid of it again. The fact that I’m struggling a lot with purging especially is getting to me. Not because it’s something particularly new, but because it used to not play such a huge role in my life as it does now. While there’s always a sick corner in my mind that is craving the rush, the feeling of emptiness, there are also other parts that leave me broken when I’m finished. I don’t feel ‘well’ or accomplished or great when I look into the mirror.
I feel tired. I feel disgusted with myself. I feel upset, and yes, I also feel sad.
Sad that it seems like it doesn’t matter how hard I’m trying because I just cannot get out of these vicious cycles.
Self harm, depression, detachment, exhaustion, anxiety, despair – only a few of the things I’ve been forced to fight for far too long already.

(Once again I can hear past therapists’ words playing in the back of my mind:
“Sometimes, when it’s been going on for such a long time, it’s too late.“)

It’s too late.
Those few words that have always been screaming for attention inside of me.
It’s too late, too late, too late.
Are there any other words that make you feel more hopeless than these? At least at the moment I cannot think of any.
What if they are right? What if this is it?

To be quite honest, when I think about how many years my mental illnesses have already consumed, I can feel my knees getting weak. The past is stained with dark red blotches of misery and my future doesn’t look any better either; everyone agrees with that.
I’ve long accepted that if I continue, I will always need my medication, I will always need to be careful, to watch my every step. A fact that makes me wonder, more often than not, if it’s worth it.
After all, my illnesses have invaded every part of my life, ruined it, ruined me. I feel like I’m doomed to spend the rest of my life trying to fix it, doomed to spend my life with the attempt to survive instead of actually living it. A thought that feels like there’s a knife stuck in my chest.

I’m tired.

Tomorrow I’m seeing my new therapist for the last time until my insurance company decides to allow further sessions. Hopefully they won’t make me wait for too long again, though, because despite all disordered thoughts and voices inside of me, I’m quite aware that I need the help and that I need it asap.
Let’s wait and see if I’ll get it.

14:11

Words of remorse
yet the damage is
done. It’s easy to
eat one’s words, but be careful to not
choke.

---

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Misery

Once again I‘m falling, once again I can feel the wind rushing past my skin, cutting through my layers with its sharp touch, only to expose what‘s inside of me, what‘s been there all along.

Misery.

It‘s sticking to my bones like old, rusty paint that just won‘t come off regardless of how much I scrub. I try to run and turn, to hide, to break away from it, but as soon as I open my eyes, as soon as I take another, further step, it‘s there.

Misery.

It makes me feel like pushing every single person away from me is the only right choice. Like leaving behind this hopeless life is what I need to do in order to be clear of pain and exhaustion, to be done with it, once and for all.

Misery.

It‘s everywhere. It doesn‘t matter if I close my eyes to make the images disappear. It doesn‘t matter if I scream out loud; it doesn‘t make a difference for when it comes down to it, no amount of howling will be able to pull me out of this shell of a body, to get me away from myself,
from

Misery.

Why can‘t I feel anything else? Why can‘t I escape this rope around my neck that seems to be tightening more and more with each day that passes?

Misery.

God, I wish I was free

of this

Misery.

[323517473]

Misery is sticking
like a
second skin layer
to me and all I
want
is to scratch and rip it off.
I’m caged within myself.
I’m screaming and yelling, but my voice
cannot be heard.