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.
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.
Nausea, exhaustion, pain. I’m tired of feeling this way, of fighting each day & night these terrible thoughts. I hate this body – not only because it’s disgusting, but because it constantly hurts. What is it like to go through your days without each step, each breath you take, each slight move hurting? I can’t even try to imagine that; it must be soothing.
Getting out of bed is too much, pretending to smile is taking all I have.
I’m tired of walking and climbing through this life when my steps feel like nothing, but exhaustion. Why do I have to keep trying? I’ve died a long time ago, and this human shell of mine is impatiently waiting for its final resting place.
I am not what you need,
but darkness, a mere rain cloud.
Used to be called sunshine,
but even that had to end some time.
I am not what you need,
but an anchor pulling you down.
Wished I could be an angel, if only
for you, yet this demon cannot fly.
I am not what you need, but my
I wish I was, wish I could be.
Still I fear that as much as I’d love
to be your happiness, I am not.
I am not what you need, but I am
not for long, not forever. My life’s
curtain is falling
Years of fighting,
still not enough.
Nights spend bleeding,
this life’s tough.
Demons in these minds,
tearing us apart.
People are watching,
thinking it’s art.
Pain’s not fascinating
despite words of charm.
These bruises not pretty,
just hell’s way of harm.
Don’t turn away,
when darkness appears,
these are our lives,
these are our fears.
The more I think about how awful my mood is (and how nothing seems to work to improve it), the worse it gets. It feels like there’s something stuck inside of my chest that’s trying to claw (scratch, push) its way out of me, making it difficult to breathe.
I hate that, next to everything else, I also feel like I have no idea who the fuck I am and that most of the time I cannot recognise my own reflection or even feel like I’m real. The pain, the bad, awful thoughts, the haunting demons following me around are there, are real, yes, but what about me? It’s like I’m not in this body; I’m here, but at the same time I’m not. I’m trapped somewhere else and can’t get out.
It‘s Thursday afternoon already and I feel beyond miserable. My back, head, and joints hurt incredibly much, making it difficult to concentrate on anything at all. The deadline for a sort of exam alternative is on Monday and I haven‘t managed anything yet despite trying. As soon as I sit down to work on it, I get confused and come up with seemingly 10 different ways to solve the tasks, none of which seem to be the actual right one.
I don‘t want to care about uni anymore.
I feel like I‘m way past my due date. I should have managed my BA in three years, should have been done in 2014, but by now it‘s 2016 and I feel worse and still hate myself. I‘m stuck with flashbacks of times long gone and more often than not, I catch myself thinking about my younger self/selves.
I hate the fact that it‘s been more than 10 years of this, I hate that even after all these years I still can’t say that fighting is worth it.
Let me be one of the stars,
I no longer wish to remain.
Being on this earth is agony,
staying is nothing but vain.
The night sky above is calling,
it’s reaching out for my soul.
These demons living within me
are trying to swallow me whole.
And I know I promised to resist,
yet this heart is weary of time.
My bones are heavy and cold
as I write down this final rhyme:
I’ve fought each gloom and light,
sought peace and quiet in art.
But the ink that used to define me
tore me step by step apart.
My chest hurts, I’m tired, and exhausted of my mind. I spent the whole day with suicidal thoughts and because that apparently wasn’t (fun) enough already, I’m stuck with more thoughts of misery. I know I am a burden, and I know, my God, I fucking know that I’m not lovely or great or worth a lot (if anything at all), but it still doesn’t make feeling insignificant and replaceable any easier. I’m tired. I’m upset. I’m all over the place. I just want to burn my skin and open it, just want to feel something else beside this misery, these constant thoughts of suicide. I just want to stop feeling so utterly t o r n apart.