Lies

Lies: "I'm okay." "No, that doesn't hurt my feelings." "Yes, I can." "I forgive ____." "I don't need to cut anymore."

Repeat

I think there must be something wrong with me that enables guys who do not understand the concept of "No" to find me. And I know there is something wrong with me that stops me from screaming or crying out for help or even fighting back. Put on top of that my recent battle with cutting and extreme self-loathing in general, and you've got me: the now college drop-out who can't take care of herself, is not worth anything, and is ugly and fat. In other words, Sarah. I don't care to commit suicide, but I wouldn't much care if I died. Nor do I really care what happens to me anymore. Because when I do start to care, something bad always happens. So yes, I do give up. What happens, happens and it doesn't matter anymore whether I survive and do the things I'm "supposed" to do or whether I slip into the background and fade away into nothing. Nothing really matters anymore.

Sickness

the sickness in my mind that pushed me to cut last night for the first time in ages (i managed to not cut after the last entry) has manifested itself in a full body sickness today. being back where it happened is throwing me off more than i can hope to explain.

Blood Thirst

I have this terrible desire in me. I have not felt it this strong in years. It goes beyond the desire to cut and see blood. It is a desire for the blood itself. And not even a desire so much as a need. I've felt it coming on for over a week now. I've yet to give in, but I'm afraid that I will. And soon. I crave the amount of blood it took for me to write a letter to my father in my own blood with my own fingers as I did when I was 16. Would I taste the blood? Yes. Drink it? Unlikely. But the only way I know to describe this is to call it a thirst. As if my own eyes wish to drink it. And then there is the wickedly twisted desire to fill my ink well not with the powdered ink I bought, but with my own blood. To take the quill and write in my blood on the specialized paper. To seal it with the blood red wax and rose stamp. I always did have a love for roses. Roses have become associated with pain and blood in my mind. Once I called a friend Rose. Now, after the betrayal of friendship, when I see roses, I imagine them dripping with blood. The blood comes from the center of the flower, slowly bleeding out to coat the stem and thorns. No fresh blood adorns the thorns as one would think. They receive only secondary blood. I want blood. I need blood. Need the pain that follows. I crave it. I don't hold out much hope for resistance. Everything is falling to pieces around me. My mind calls for the blood to satisfy the pain that is tearing though the pitiful remains of my soul. There is no light at the end of the tunnel, for the tunnel does not end for the damned. And I am damned.

Jobs

I have no desire to get a job, yet in order to go back to BYU I desperately need one. I actually have no desire to do much of anything. FML.

Strange

A strange mood, this one I'm in. It's as if I'm gripped by the need to do something now but also by the complete, inescapable knowledge that I am unable to do it, whatever it is. It's like loneliness and despair are trying to choke the life out of an already struggling flower who lives among weeds.

As I watch a show or read a story, I ache to change the lives of the characters so that they are happy. Actually, physically ache. I cry, my chest feels constricted with worry...it's disconcerting. Painful. And yet, I cannot escape it. I must continue reading and watching story after story. The actors are no longer actors, they are the characters. In any capacity I see them, I will only think of them as that character. And then when the actor is very accomplished in their career and I have seen many of their works, my brain becomes confused. It takes me awhile to reassign the actor to a character. Sometimes, an actor is multiple people to me. It becomes very hard to sort out.

I have a hole inside me. I thought it was healing. But I could not have been more wrong. In Twilight, the character Bella Swan describes a hole in her chest after Edward Cullen leaves her. And yet, for all the agony she describes...it does not compare to the hole in my own chest. I did not stop living as Bella did. I could not afford to. I was already under constant supervision when the hole was formed, but God how I wish I could have just died. I still often wish that I had. I cannot see my life going in a better direction. The hole formed long before I read that part of Twilight. I couldn't tell you the day, or the time. All I remember is the sudden onslaught of pain in my chest. The inability to breathe. Crying so hard I collapsed. Never in my life had I cried so hard. I haven't since. No, a boy did not leave me. Rather, it was a girl. My best friend of five years. She was my other half. She knew me as I was, faults and all. And for all I thought I knew and understood her, I learned that night that I did not. I had foolishly let myself become dependent on her. I needed her approval to breathe. And when she withdrew it...oh God. It wasn't even a total shock. I had known it was going to happen. It had before, but this time, I knew it was final. There was no turning back. I was not young. I was not inexperienced in the ways of humanity, of cruelty. Yet I was as a lamb led to the slaughter. And a part of me truly did die that night. And it's embarrassing. I let someone I had never met in real life literally destroy my life with one word. One word that I can no longer tolerate in a "final" sense. One...little word: "goodbye". Ever since then, whenever someone says that word to me for the last time, especially in anger, I have an onslaught of memories. Memories of feeling worthless, meaningless...nothing. It is then that my depression reaches it's peaks, or rather it's lowest of lows. Often, this despair induces an almost fevered state in my mind. I lost control of my thoughts. I begin to laugh at pain, to desire pain. It is then that I cut. Then that I run the blade through my skin. Then that I crave blood. The smell, the taste, the sight... It is then that I become a true monster. Try as I might, I cannot forget what happened between me and that friend. I cannot block her out of my life. Her memory is like a dark shadow, haunting and hungry for any happiness I might obtain. It reminds me that I am nothing. I am no one. The hole she left is of my own making. I was stupid enough to depend on someone else. But, it is a hole nevertheless. The edges start to heal...but with every new setback in my life, they become raw again. I love hugs, but if the truth be told, it is only because they help the hole feel less...present in my life. Part of me knows I can't blame her, and yet part of me must blame her in order to keep surviving. I hate and miss her at the same time. So not only do I have a hole the size of a bowling ball in my chest, my heart is being torn in different directions on how to deal with it. Perhaps now you can see why I so often wish to die. Yes, I'm sure there are people out there who have it worse off than me...but that does not change how I feel. I wish it would. As it is, I have the distinct feeling that I shall be stuck in emotional limbo for the rest of my life in one way or the other.

And this isn't even touching the fact that my life is now ruled by the biggest mistake I ever made.

Twist-turned-upside-down.

Sometimes, I think if there is a God, he likes playing hide and seek too much. Of course we must seek him out, but when we do seek, why does it seem like he isn't always there? It's like he's gone and hid himself in another universe we don't have access to. I think someone ought to re-explain the rules to him or to me, because somewhere...it all got confused.

Being alone in a crowded place...a contradiction. I have become a walking contradiction. I have begun to start laughing when I should be crying, crying when I should be laughing, and angry when I should be playing. Everything is backwards. I'M backwards.

I wish I were not real. That I could escape completely into the world of the characters all around me.

Alone in the crowd, darkness in light, death in life. Death...I wish I were dead, I wish I had the courage to die.

Hurt

I've felt pain before, who hasn't? But the pain that I feel now...it's as if all I AM is pain. It courses through me, tinging my every thought. I laugh, but then wonder why since I've ruined my life so completely. I get angry, but it eventually dissipates because I feel as if I have no right to anger when I did not scream. I feel as if the only emotion I am allowed is pain. All consuming, burning, murderous pain. I've been suicidal in the past, even planned it out. But now my impulses for suicide come randomly and several times I've only barely been able to stop myself. And then I wonder why I did. Sometimes I remember that I have family and friends who care, but sometimes I don't. Sometimes my loneliness is almost as bad as the pain. I have a sneaking suspicion that they feed each other.

Scream

I should have screamed. I should have fought. I didn't. I just lied there like a dead person. I can't take it back. I can't scream now to make up for it. I can't even scream out loud at all. Though, in my head, all I hear is screaming.

I watched Dear John tonight. I cried. I cried and I hated and I broke. I spent the next hour after driving. I drove to his city. I could not scream. I wanted to. Probably looked like a fish for all of the times I opened my mouth to try. I could not. Instead, I just drove. Did not even wander through the city. I entered it from the west, and left quickly through the south. Every minute I wanted to throw up. Yet, I could not even do that.

He's killed me and doesn't even care or know. And likely never will. All because I never screamed.

Guilty

I have now entered the ranks of the guilty ones. I could not bring myself to say no. I gave in. He knew I would and pressed it until I no longer even tried to fight. I have no one to blame but myself. And now, instead of being able to hold it inside like I had wanted, it has blown up before me. No jury would ever convict him when I was as stupid as I was. All I feel for myself now is hatred. Hatred at the monster I have become. I do not even desire his pain. I want only my blood. Not even to cut, but all of it. My desire to keep going...no longer exists. All that is left to me is a blood lust for my own life. For, without me in it, the world would have one less monster to ruin it. And, perhaps, that is for the best.

Death

It hurts. Everything hurts. I just want everything to go away. I want to curl up and die.

Again

I did it again. Overdosed. Cut.
Glorious.
The out of body experience produced by the overdose was incredible. Almost instantaneous. And then it gave me what I sought most: sweet surrender to the darkness. I did not wake for hours. Not a single dream interrupted the sleep.
And the blood...ah the blood. I had forgotten how much I love the smell of blood. It is invigorating. Tantalizing. The burn of flesh being opened. The red that paints the skin. Wondrous to behold. Addicting. I stopped only because I began to lose consciousness. And only one person has even noticed, which means I can get away with it in the future, and at greater lengths, too.
Sam is back.


And all for one little word: goodbye.

Cut

The anger bubbles up inside me. This time for myself. I chose to do that which I had promised myself I would never do again. The only thing I can do is regret...wish...but in the end, I did it. I was stupid. I cut my lifeline.

Wildfire

The anger spreads like wildfire through my limbs. How does something so simple create so much fire inside of me? It is as if I no longer control my own body. My actions become harsh, quicker and almost aimlessly violent. Even my vision changes. Somehow, things manage to become clearer and hazy at the same time. My head fills with profanity I would not dare to say out loud. I curse anyone who may have even slightly contributed to situation. I desire nothing but violence.

And then...it disappears. The fire is gone. There is nothing left but the burnt ashes of time. The anger dissipates to emptiness. As soon as it appears and fills my life, it leaves and my life becomes empty. The fire is always followed by a period of death. Eventually, the new growth will come. But the death seems to last an eternity. The ashes and burnt structure of my once there life mocks me. It laughs as if I were a pitiful creature charred and barely breathing in the middle of a once luscious prairie that has been reduced to ash and soot. And perhaps I am.

Or perhaps I am really the fire and the creature is who I should be.