And just when I thought it would never end, I look into the eyes of my childhood soul mates and realize the battle is over. I won. Now my new mission is to allow myself to claim the prize: my sanity and self love
I hate missing people, they never miss me back. I guess I’m at the point where my emotions plummet from not being on the Seroquel. Yea, I’m off that shit. I loved this dude so goddamn much, but he obviously doesn’t give a fuck. I wish I could fall asleep, but Seroquel withdrawal symptoms won’t allow me to do so. So, guess I’ll just watch some bad movie on Netflix for now.
“On the girl’s brown legs there were many small white scars. I was thinking, Do those scars cover the whole of you, like the stars and the moons on your dress? I thought that would be pretty too, and I ask you right here please to agree with me that a scar is never ugly. That is what the scar makers want us to think. But you and I, we must make an agreement to defy them. We must see all scars as beauty. Okay? This will be our secret. Because take it from me, a scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I survived.”
-Chris Cleave, Little Bee
I hate the fact that I no longer have something to help me cope when I begin to feel shitty. Cutting doesn’t help me escape anymore. I never thought this could happen; I guess this is a good thing. But it feels more bad than good. I don’t know what to do with myself now. Knowing I no longer have a coping mechanism is frightening. There is not a moment that passes by without me thinking about how good it feels to know that my little razor friend is there for me. I feel myself wanting to move on, but I don’t now how to. I, just like everybody else, hate change. Even if it’s for the best. I want to accept the fact that I have grown out of it and yes, it was just a phase. Cutting is not my life…anymore. But what now? How do I continue the growth? Getting over cutting is one thing, but how do I transition to a life where I no longer THINK about the relief it granted .
Family is the label that society gives a whole bunch of fuckers the right to make kids feel like shit. What do they call it? Tough love, more like tough bullshit. Love doesn’t come in varieties, especially in “tough”. How dare you threaten to kick me out because of the way I dress. Are you kidding me? Cut up jeans with tights, really, Fam? I don’t have a family. I don’t have anyone to defend me. Not even my mom, she is too scared of my father to defend me, mind you she lives in a different country. Now that they ran out of shit to bitch at, they decide to bitch at the way I dress, AFTER they say ” you look like “a gay”. What? This is major bullshit, just like your “love” for me.
I want to die, I want dead to slowly creep behind me and catch me off guard. I have been feel okay for the past few weeks but two nights ago I relapsed. I don’t want to believe it is because I have been unfaithful with the Monster ( Seroquel). I cannot breathe, I want to take a box cutter and rip open my chest. I can feel my lungs taking in the deep breath, but it feels like it’s stuck in my chest. I don’t care if I don’t make any sense right now because life isn’t making sense to me. Everyone is going against me, I have no one to come to my defense; except for my little razor. I don’t want to go back to my old ways because I know it will come back ten times worst. Help me…..God….anyone. Death where are you when you are actually wanted. So many people are in pain around me and it feels as if I am just sucking it all in for them. There isn’t anyone that will take in my pain for me. Maybe I am crazy? Nah, I can’t be. I swear these thoughts are my own. I just don’t know how to hush them, you know? Like, I’m fucking okay, right? I don’t know. I DON’T FUCKING KNOW. No, I’m not, but in a way I am. I just want to die. That is the only problem, if I would just die everything would be okay. It would, yeah it would. No, it wouldn’t be. Fuck. I can’t handle this, I really can’t. I don’t even know what the fuck I am writing right now. I just know if I stop writing I will start doing something else, I don’t want to do it but my mind wants me to. I can I make my mind want do something else. Control. I want control, I want to control something and cutting is the only thing I can control. shit man when did things get so bad? All I can picture right now is my laying down bleeding and waiting for the warm sensation of death to creep onto me and take me away from myself. I am constantly fighting with myself. When will it end, when will I feel better? I am so tired of this, you now? It hurts a lot, and NO ONE FUCKING UNDERSTANDS. I am so pathetic, I really should just end it right now. I am tired of being alone, crying, and cutting. I want to be okay. I want to disappear into thin air. I want to go away…fly with the birds and float on fucking clouds. Oh, my this is unbearable. I am tired of being “strong” and if suicide makes me weak then I am a damn coward. I just want to shred my wrist apart and rip my veins out. I want to be at peace…with myself. At this point, I have nothing left to lose. Would you cry if I died or would you chuckle?
I want this flower in my cold lifeless hands. Yellow was my favorite color before I became this mess
Home: a place where one goes for shelter, rest, love, and protection. A place to hide from judgment and hurt. A home is suppose to be a safe haven. We are suppose to be at ease and comfortable. So, why am I not comfortable. Are there two types of homes? In my home, I am an outcast. I do not understand why, because in grade school, I was told a home is where you are suppose to be happy and loved. I’m not happy nor loved, is the roof I sleep under not a home? A house is concrete, home is abstract. Home is not real. A home is not a home without a house, but I have the house. Now, how the I get the home. What is the name of a house that is not a home? In my house, I am ignored, I sleep not rest and I am judged. I am judged by the way I speak, the way I dress, and the way I interact. Since a home is where you are loved and such, does that mean the outside world is my home? One the outside, I am smart, funny, loving….perfect. Is it me that is backwards or is it the people in my home or is it because the home is just a house? I have so many unanswered questions about this, but no one seems to understand the question behind the question. I am asking; why aren’t I loved, cared for, protected, at ease? I want a home, I want to be cared for, so why do you make me feel unwanted and left out, Daddy Dearest? I want a HOME, even if it is a tent…hopefully not, dear goodness. I don’t know, my high from my graduation has worn off, you somehow managed to fuck it up in a day!!! I’m homesick, I need care, don’t judge me because I am different. Stop calling me gay, you bias ignorant shit. You wouldn’t no gay, if it throw up an rainbow on your oh so pretty HOUSE.