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.
Tag Archives: suicide
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.
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?
Misery is filling the air around me, my lungs inhaling it, slowly, but steadily.
It’s a usual night, quiet, yet not peaceful; dry, yet too warm to be able to breathe easily. As I’m writing these words, darkness has started settling over the horizon, leaving nothing but a pitch black view and an inkling of gloom. If I were to get up, the tiny window would allow me to see my wretched reflection; a mirror of who I am, say others, while a lie is all I can observe.
What is it like to know who you are?
To not constantly question your entire being, to feel like something else but a heart that has been shattered over and over again, a soul that is beyond repair, broken and incomplete — without hope?
I don’t know.
Demons are constantly whispering into my ears, living inside of me, taking up every inch. There’s no more space for “me”, whoever that may be; perhaps there never was.
And even when I try to reach out, to fight, to find myself, peace, sanity, — comfort, there is still nothing to hold on to.
There’s only darkness.
(I am alone. I am no one. I am nothing.)
Perhaps Death would be a kinder companion.
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
I know that it’s me. I’m the one who’s always wrong, who should be punished, who is worthless and doesn’t deserve anything but rejection. But my god. It still hurts. I want to be a better person. My god. I try so hard every fucking day. But it’s just not possible. I’m a monster, I’m disgusting. I’m not supposed to be loved. The nightmare that one day e v e r y o n e will leave me WILL come true, I know it. I just do. And on the one hand I am trapped between fearing that day, fearing the pain, the burning fire from within that is trying to turn me into nothing but ashes, and on the other hand, that day might equal comfort because then I could finally leave this place without any guilt. But why wait? I might as well just get it over with and spare me the aching. Don’t I deserve at least one moment without these torturous thoughts?
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.
Torn between too many things, I have no idea who the fuck I even am. BPD is tearing me apart more and more, and I no longer have the energy to fight it. I just want to give up (on fighting, living). My therapist told me on Friday how huge it is that I’ve managed to go to work these past weeks, that I managed to deal with university, that I managed to stay alive somehow despite me being stuck in a severely self-destructive mood. But you know? None of these things seem to matter; they are not enough, and neither am I. Even words are not enough; at least not enough to describe these feelings stuck inside of my bones.