right or wrong, barely holding on.

TW: self-harm, suicidal ideation

Day by day, I’m slipping from shadow to shadow. It’s day time as I write this, and the sunlight is shining through my window. But if you sat in front of me and looked in my eyes, you’d see the lights are off inside.

I’m here, but am I really?

The benevolence from others around me comes and goes. The benevolence within myself has vanished.

Maybe the therapy and medication isn’t working anymore.

I relapsed. The razor was too loud today and couldn’t be ignored.

I’m existing but I don’t really know why anymore. There’s nothing to look forward to. I have no real future plans. I can’t see beyond the moments in front of me. I guess I just exist to pay bills that allow me to survive mediocrely, which that isn’t even going too well. My dreams and goals have flown away. My motivation and inspiration is only a figment of my imagination. My reflection in the mirror looks at me with dead eyes. Who is she?

I don’t even know why I write any of this anymore. You’ll read this, feel bad, or feel nothing at all, and continue on with your day without a second thought.

I think about dying all the time. But when I want to plan it, I cry. Why? Why do I cry over that? Nothing makes sense anymore, so why prolong the inevitable? I tried twice long ago and somehow survived. It’s like pro-life people: for some fucking reason they care about a fetus, but as soon as it’s alive, they don’t give a shit and don’t give it a second thought. It’s the same for suicidal people. They take their lives and then suddenly everyone cares but then moves on pretty quickly. Life doesn’t stop when one life ends.

I don’t know what I’m saying. I’m not well, but there isn’t anything I can really do about it. There’s nothing anyone can really do. So I just exist and I’m burning from the inside of my core, and it’s just absolute misery feeling like I’m on fire.

I wake up and feel empty. I crave love and attention from those who probably don’t think of me as much as I think of them. I’m pretty sure I’m going to die alone. Did my mom think about these kinds of things happening to me as she raised me? She lit me on fire first and then left me here to burn, and then went and died. Now I can’t seem to keep myself from combusting. The fire extinguisher is empty. I suppose I’ll die soon enough, soon.

When people ask how I am, I lie and say I’m fine. I try to plug up the gaping hole in my chest that keeps flooding some kind of black sludge so it doesn’t spill out on peoples feet. I think I’m doing an okay job. I have to keep masking and pretending so I can pass as a normal functioning member of society, right?

Oh, but what do I have to feel sad about? I’m writing this on a MacBook Pro. I have a car. I live in Los Angeles. I’m living the fucking dream, right?

I would trade it all to have a brain that doesn’t try to kill me everyday. I would trade it all to have a clear thinking brain that doesn’t convince me that I’m ruined, that I’m alone, that nobody loves me or cares about me, that nobody would ever choose me in a thousand lifetimes, that I’m useless and worthless, that I actually have talent and something to offer.

I don’t know. I think I’m a lost cause that everyone has gently given up on and just smiles and says everything will be okay to appease me. I hardly want to deal with myself either, so I understand. Let’s be honest, I’m a liability to their own well-being. The less I say, the better. Which is why I have to continue to mask.

I feel like my 13 year old self today. Sitting at the edge of my bed late at night with a bandage pin in my hand, pushing it into my skin, crying alone. Except I’m 31, it’s not late at night, and it wasn’t a bandage pin. But I cried alone, just like I always do. Always finding myself among the ashes because there’s no one else around. I’m too ashamed to show that part of me. And when it does come out around people, it’s embarrassing and pathetic.

Sorry if reading this offended you or worried you. Understandable if you clicked out. Understandable if you simply don’t care.

I can’t be my hero or antidote right now.

So I’ll be here, living another day.
Closing my eyes, and drifting away.

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These are the musings of a 31 y/o dreamer, wisher and doer. All my posts are authentic; I write what's in my heart.

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