Supposed to Be

I was supposed to be successful. Supposed to go to Harvard. Supposed to graduate high school and college early. I was supposed to save myself for marriage. Supposed to have boyfriends. Supposed to be skinny. Supposed to be happy. Supposed to be married with a child or two by now. I was supposed to have a job to be able to support myself on my own. Supposed to be perfect.








I was supposed to be anyone but who I am.

Fuck it. I give up. I can't do anything right, can I?

Missing

I don't want to go on anymore. I don't want to keep trying. Nothing is real anymore. The facade I wore has penetrated into my soul except for the glaring fact that I know it is not truth. I can no longer do it.

Silently Screaming

There are a million things I want to say to you. A million things I don't know how to put into words. I'm getting tired of living without a purpose. I'm getting tired of all the screaming in my head. There are things I never should have said. Secrets I never should have given voice to. There is so much I wish I could take back. So many actions, thoughts and wishes I would never have done if I knew the things that I know now. Because what I know now is that no one cares beyond what necessity or duty compel them to. Not even me.
Selbstmord. The deliberate killing of oneself. Do you have any idea what it is like to wake up day after day, week after week with images of your own death? Or if it is not your death you dream of, it is the death of someone else. Someone you know in your waking life. Someone you dreamed up. It doesn't matter. Every instance is gut wrenching. At least at first. After that, it becomes disturbing. Then...annoying. And suddenly, it's a part of your everyday life. But, your subconscious won't give up there. It starts to mix in more "regular" dreams, or dreams that are just as screwed up as dreams of death, in with your death dreams. So that every time you sleep your mind becomes more confused, your reality becomes more distorted and always you feel like crying. I did not scream aloud when I was raped or sexually assaulted. I did not scream when my fingers were slammed in a car door. I do not scream. I do not cry loudly. I scream and cry in silence. Because no one cares. Not even me.

Don't count the miles...

Sometimes, I think "I'll lose weight and get a job and go back to school so you'll be proud of me." But in the end it doesn't work because you won't care whether I do those things or not. I just want you to be proud of me. To notice me. To say you love me and mean it. But you don't. And you won't. And I lose a little more of myself each day. I am a no one because I cannot find the right motivation to live. I want you to see me....but how could you ever see a no one?

Pathetic

Pathetic. That's what I am. There is no other way around it. Comparatively speaking, I have a life that many people would give anything for. And yet, I'm desperate to stop living. I'm not even sure why I'm alive right now. Sure, the attention of still being here even though I don't want to be is something; but mostly, that attention just hurts. It's not the attention that I need. And what I need, I cannot have.
I just let people down. T, I know you'll read this eventually. You said you weren't sure you'd survive if I die. But I don't really believe that. Or understand how you can. "I don't understand."? This is what I don't understand. Maybe I've never outright hurt you, but I've never helped either. For Pete's sake, I introduced you to my depression and cutting when you were ELEVEN YEARS OLD. Nearly ten years ago. I've desensitized you to that reality. I never should have mentioned it. Any of it. If anything, my biggest contribution to your life has been to make you learn to be apathetic to things. Not something to be proud of.
What I also don't understand is how you saying that you might not survive is keeping me alive, even when I don't believe it's true.


"Suicide sometimes proceeds from cowardice, but not always; for cowardice sometimes prevents it; since as many live because they are afraid to die, as die because they are afraid to live." -Charles Caleb Colton

Dream Catcher

Dear Dream Catcher-
You're not doing very well at your job. I'm still having nightmares. In fact, they're getting more frequent and worse. Because now I have nightmares of backlash from the world over having finally admitted to some people that I like girls. Please fix yourself so I can sleep again.
Sincerely,
A Would-be Dreamer

Bleeding Plateau

not that it matters, but it's safe to say that i'm not okay. i hit a plateau in my efforts to lose weight and seem to have basically given up. except now i hate myself even more. while at the same time not caring enough to change. i read something in a blog recently that describes more or less where i'm at. basically, the writer said that (at one time in their life) they wished they didn't believe in an afterlife. why? because then dying would finally be the answer. believing in an afterlife screws everything up. because it means the pain won't stop when i die. in fact, it'll probably get worse because of guilt and crap. honestly, i just want to stop. to stop existing. to stop feeling, needing, being, wanting, breathing, hurting, EVERYTHING. i want to end. but i grew up with a religion that shoves the belief of life after death down our throats from day one. and for those who do not suffer this consuming desire to end, i'm sure it's great. but not for me. for me it is a torment.

and yet, all this doesn't matter. because i am just one out of seven billion. my problems do not matter. they are nothing compared to the problems of 99% of the worlds population. i know i'll keep living because i cannot as yet come to grips with an eternal hell after death when mortal probationary hell is shitty enough. so what does my whining matter against the suicides of countless people around the globe? what does it matter against the suffering of people who really do have reasons to suffer?

it doesn't. i don't. and i wish to god this were freeing to know this, but it makes it worse. because i am a member of the human race and humanity seeks for validation above all. validation that they as individuals, society, a race matter. that they are important. that they make an impact.

a speck of dust is all that i am. a speck of dust in a sea of fields.

i wish that i could end.

Clutter

My life seems to be just as cluttered as my room right now. Nothing is orderly or makes sense. And yet, I seem to lack the motivation to clean either one...

Oddity

Strange. That is how I feel. Pa stopped me tonight on my way to bed to tell me he had noticed a change in my behavior. For the better. Said I seemed to be more willing to do little things to help out other people. Though, I don't think he recognized it on his own (my brother-in-law seems to have been the one to have pointed it out). Still, it was nice to hear him say that. Even if I didn't notice the change myself. But in all honesty, it is probably because I haven't had as much time to be mopey as usual on the outside (as in, sitting by myself to think for long periods of time). Life is steadily becoming more fast paced for me. I'm not sure I like it. But such it is.
It seems that no matter how angry my pa can make me at times, I still crave his approval. I still strive to make him laugh, like during Family Scripture Study tonight. I still do things that aren't convenient for me just to hear him say "thank you." I still want to be his little girl. And yet, for all this, at times I despise myself.
Strange. Strange indeed.

Point

What is the point? I mean...seriously. Even if I do lose weight...I'll still be me. I hate me.

Sleep

I'm exhausted. Physically, mentally, emotionally exhausted. It's after midnight, so maybe that's the problem, but it isn't always. I never know until I wake up in the morning if I'm going to be okay or not. But sometimes, like now, I don't even want to wait to find out. I'd rather just slip into nothing. Non-existence. I'm tired, Anne. I can find the good in everyone but myself. What then is left to me?


What then is left?

Parents

Seriously? Don't even pretend like you care. You see something and think you know me, understand me, know what I'm going through. You don't know shit. Do you hear me? YOU DON'T KNOW SHIT. NOTHING. So stay out of my life. You didn't care when I tried to tell you. No. All you cared about was your son. All you've ever cared about is him. I live in your house because I have no other realistic option right now. NOT because I want to. I'd much rather be dead. But unlike YOU, I care about other people and when they tell me they need me. Even when I don't believe them. That's why I'm not dead. Just stay away from me.

Listless

Listless:
-adjective
-having or showing little or no interest in anything; languid; spiritless; indifferent
-me.

I cut again. Tried to collect the blood. Was a bit harder than I had planned on. In order to get the amount I want/need, I have to cut deeper and/or more. Or, at a place where a vein is closer to the surface. But I dislike cutting deeply because I scar terribly from cutting lightly. So, the arm is out as a source. Perhaps the ankle next. In the mean time, life is dull. At home, everything is the same: no one understands or even asks. They are blind. And they take everything that has been keeping me alive. In my mind, things are getting worse: I dislike myself (duh) but am quickly realizing that I'm much worse than I originally thought. It seems that I set myself up for disappointment. Because nothing good will come of what is now before me. It is an impossibility. Experience has shown me that. And yet, I continue to give away my independence to people and things despite the past and its pain. It would be better if my existence had never occurred. Stopping it suddenly does not erase what has happened and those involved. No. It would be better had I never been born.

Rage

Headaches seem to be constant. And constantly shading everything red. Anger is almost constantly beating at the back of my head, and when it takes over my headache gets worse because my whole head pounds with the force of my anger on TOP of the headache. And anything is likely to set me off. Especially my own thoughts. Cutting numbs all of this but I've suppressed the urge since the last post. I don't think it's going to last much longer. I finally found a container to collect my blood so that I can write with it with my calligraphy pen.

Write

"Written in blood." An interesting saying. Rather macabre. But to do so...makes me giddy. Likely because of how much blood it requires. I had forgotten how long the high lasts. Perhaps I need to do this more often.

Grip

To the past: I want to let you go. You're tearing me apart. Killing me. And you don't even know it. You've forgotten all about me. But I can't let you go. Your memory is like a vice cutting off my desire to live. You've left me. Why can't I let your memory go? Why?


To the present: I want to let you go, too. These hairpin turns you keep throwing at me hurt. I'm not prone to wearing my seat belt at all times. Please, I'm begging you...stop. Just...stop. Stop screwing around. Literally. Figuratively. I'm running out of how many times I can accept you being pregnant. You never have good news. Always bad. Even your smiles are fake. And I know you're hurting. And I know you've suffered so much. But...I have a breaking point. If I knew how to leave someone, I'd leave. You are a vice on top of the past's vice. I'm so sorry. I wish I didn't feel this way.

Well.

Well, fuck. There goes that. Awesome.

Cracked

Cracked. Broken. Shattered. Has Issues. Fucked Up. Take your pick. They all describe me. And the desire to fix me is coming back to haunt me less and less often. Not that I mind. I think perhaps I need to make a Plan. For when I'm through being a Chicken Shit and pretending that there is still part of the world that hasn't abandoned me and that I in return have not let go. The shrink is right, I did screw up. But she's also wrong. It is my fault.

Add

Considering adding worthless to the s.

So sick of this shit. Being gone would be so much easier. Home is no better than Hell.

Body Art

Fat. Ugly. Used. More crisscrosses than one could hope to count.


Alone. All alone.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

I should apparently never talk again. I land people in psych wards. SHIT.

Everything is Nothing

Everything is nothing, yet nothing is everything. How can I describe this feeling? It's as if I'm empty inside yet there is something yearning to explode out of me. My hands and feet are like ice but the blood I feel racing through my body is as hot as fire. Where my heart is hurts. My throat burns. My temples ache. My mind is on over-drive. Yet about what won't it shut up? I don't even know. It races from topic to topic. From one end of a debate to another: do I cut or not and for heaven's sake WHY?!; do I scream or not?; do I starve or not?; do I lie or not?...the list seems to be endless torture. And always nagging is my weight, particularly now since I know I am not good enough for them. Instead I must have weight-loss ads shoved into my face time and time again, screaming at me "YOU'RE NOT GOOD ENOUGH!". All the while, my own mind is already telling me that I'll never be good enough. I'll never be anything but the whore I was taken as. No one of consequence easily tossed about. My own mind calls me out for the traitorous hypocrite that I am, condemns me to death, and cries out at the realization that I still breathe. I am filth unworthy of the gift that is life. Anything pointing to the contrary...is only the devil laughing and playing the game of deceit.
I feel as if my chest has collapsed in on itself. Is this what it is be be counted among the living dead?

Suicide is Painless

I wish suicide were painless. Because I'd have done it by now if it were. But I'm starting to ask myself which hurts more, suicide or living.