TW: talk of suicide and self-harm.
On one side, I hear loud humming. On the other, I hear rain falling. The two together may drown out the noise inside this room, but they don’t mask the sounds going off in my head.
It’s been said that 10% of those who suffer from BPD successfully take their own lives. Sometimes I wonder… is that my fate? My own demise? Just like that, your life is just gone. Erased. Only little bits of who you were will remain in existence. Memories and your belongings. Things left for others to clean up and mourn. How does it feel to die? I tried to end it all twice. It’s been a long time since then. But everything went black, and then I woke up. Is that how you die for good?
Everything inside me tells me I’m a burden. I’m not wanted or needed. I believe it a lot of the time. I try my best to ignore it. But sometimes I lose the battle. Sometimes I miss, and the overwhelming feeling of being a burden wins. It chains me up and punishes me. It does this by telling me to just hurt myself… and I did. And I just don’t care, I guess. The voice of hatred is telling me to keep doing it. I have just a tiny bit of fight in me, and even though I’m weak, I’m holding on to the broken shield that separates me from the heaviness of the burden.
I’m cold, really cold. There’s a weight on my empty chest. It makes me feel even colder. It makes my head cloudy and I feel myself slow down.
And then I realize that this is one of those times where I’m not living for myself. I’m living for everyone else that wants me here. My life is not mine, no. It belongs to them right now. I am a vessel to keep them content, and inside is a soul that is losing its light. Everything hurts. I don’t know how to make it stop. I look at her urn and I’m trying to convince myself this life means something because she brought me here… How dare I take it for granted. Why can’t I smile and feel better?
Every minute and every tear that slips by screams that I have failed you.
I am not numb, though I wish I was. Every bit of pain feels like I’m being singed by something that’s 5,000 degrees. I have no skin to protect me. So why do I feel like I’m frozen?
Let me wake up in a world where I don’t feel like I’m drowning. Make me feel alive. I am small. Give me some warmth because I keep losing grasp of it. Bring me to a world where I don’t feel the need to hurt myself when the strength I once felt shatters.
I know my only voice doesn’t matter. In a world of endless pain, mine is nothing and means nothing. There are others who hurt. Who am I to think that my burden means more than theirs?
None of this makes sense and I don’t know why I bothered writing it.
The failure ensues.