“I said bye”
And I wan’t to write something happy, but every time I try it feels a sad melody is within the words. A lingering, you should write that happy down, seems like a memory replaying in my chest, but my eyes will never be able to see it. A memory unknown like the idea of being trapped by freedom. And the thoughts of what it should be like and what it could be like if I weren’t this way. The air filled with the scent of nothing, and depression wraps around me. I live in my bubble of me as I explore the world and by the world I mean the mall or out to dinner rarely, upstairs mostly, and my bed always. The amount to explore in my bed in my room which is all bed and distraction if I can get to it. If I can focus on it or even press the button. Self analyzing my feelings and recording them in words that don’t always make much sense. This feeling of empty has been weighing down on me and the only person strong enough to lift it is gone. And it’s only gone for about a week, but it takes me seconds to trigger and hours to stable. I can panic for 20 minutes at a time apparently, but depression knows how to hold my body for days. He does not need rest. He drains my life force. I am his feast, he is nature devouring my body while I am trapped in hibernation. About a week that’s many days to die.
First day of college finals ever.
I just wanted to say I am sorry.
He tucked me in at night and when I awoke he was there waiting for me. The thoughts come flooding to remind me that I am relapsing. And I keep wanting to apologize to my love, but at what point do apologizes become invalid. At what point do I stop using my illness as an excuse and just realize that deep down I just really am a terrible person? “and I bet you said sorry” as if this word stays on repeat. Each time I feel guilty for allowing myself to break over and over again. This time I shatter further and I keep telling myself I will be okay, but part of me won’t believe that. The same part which reminds me that I am not capable of love, so I defend myself with my illnesses. But at what point do I face the reality that this is all my mind, this is all me, and at the end of the day it is me that hurts people and myself. I am the reason my baby is sad. And for what? So that he will hurt? So that he will leave? So that I can see my true self? None of which makes sense; I know.
I am just an awful person and I feel bad that I hurt everyone that gets close. That I can’t escape myself because I am too weak. I am too weak to be better for him. Too weak to be happy because God damn does it take strength to be happy in life. Too weak to love myself and convince myself that the thoughts are wrong. And I just don’t know what to believe, I can’t decipher lie from truth. The same way I don’t know when I “overreact” to small things because of how my brain works. But I can’t tell if that’s an excuse I’m making to allow myself to not see how awful I really am.
“What’s wrong with you?” and an endless supply of answers flow through my mind this way and that way. The vision of chaos. I can’t see. There is too much going on. I forget how to stand, to balance, so I drop to the floor before I collapse. This is probably the easiest question for me to answer, but ask me about love and my mind will remain hollow. An empty space filled with silent echoes and darkness. The only way I even know what love is through the fact that sometimes I don’t cut because I don’t want to hurt you. Even in the moment where my BPD tells me I need to punish you for making me feel sad. The answer to why I self-harm always screaming at me. And when I hear it, the realization of the fact of this illusion of control is made. The truth fucking hurts. Even as I am about to write my secrets on paper I scream at myself no. But here it is. I cut myself to “control” myself and to punish. I use my own body to hurt myself for being so fucked up and out of control. I use my body to hurt the love of my life. I sometime cut because I know it will hurt him and this is one of the many reasons why I want to kill myself. What kind of sick person would use self-harm in that way? As a fucking punishment. A new scar on my thigh when I can’t control myself enough or think rationally. My lack of control resulting in an illusion, a lie to myself, and a disgusting form of punishment. Damn I’m so fucked up. I should kill myself and not as a punishment, but to protect people from this shit.
And tonight my eyes don’t shine brighter than the taste of the last smile I felt on your lips. My heart remains silent in the house in my chest because the feeling in the air told me not to call it a home. Even when decorated in the way I add textures to my skin it doesn’t speak to me. Just like how I don’t speak to you or anyone as a matter of fact. My journal now as simplistic as writing my thoughts in your eyes so now I don’t write in it. Afraid that you may one day get a papercut. So my words hideaway in a place that only my soul can touch. And I can’t tell if you feel it to. The air is what I’m talking about. Thick, the vapor from my short story, a vapor that I crave to swallow whole. Every atom so there are no casualties, none, after all you can’t kill something that isn’t alive.
And you stop me when I get worked up or when you see my anger which I hold in and bottle up. You said you could see it in my eyes. You said you see the anger I hold in my eyes and baby that’s how I know you know me. In one of my previous writings I said to please look into my eyes because I promise they hold all my secrets. My truth, my feelings have always been hidden in plain sight. Before and even now, when I don’t answer your questions verbally my eyes will answer. My eyes will tell all that my heart cannot bare to speak or my mind refuses to allow me to say (out of protection, fear, anxiety, whatever it may be, the reasons are endless for why I silence myself). But you look into my eyes even when I try my hardest to hide them. This is why I hide my face when I am hurting the most because I cannot bare you hurting too. Then when you do look or just hold me, I know you are there and you see me. You actually see me in a world where being invisible is the idea of perfection. And I cannot express how much I love you for that.
I’m sorry I’m not good enough. Yes I love you and yes I miss you, but I miss myself more sometimes. Times where I am lost to whatever this is and everyone else becomes white noise. I’m sorry that I don’t always want to talk because that day I am relearning to not hate myself, to love myself. These times where loving feels impossible, let alone living. There are times where you remind me that I am not perfect. I know this should be obvious, but sometimes my mind mixes up happy and perfect. So when I am not happy all the time I think there is something wrong with me. And in these moments where your few words, whether it just be bringing me back to reality or my actual trigger words, my world shatters. But I promise you I am trying, but the world keeps reminding me that my attempts are without a doubt pointless and never enough. Never good enough. The world isn’t always about me and it’s a good thing it isn’t. Because if it were it would be so messed up. I’m sorry I’m not good enough. It’s all that keeps going though my head. The thought of you being sad, lonely, and disappointed because of me is really killing me right now. I feel guilty. Guilty to have not been what you need in an exact moment in time. Guilty to have breathed air which does not revolve around you. Guilty for being me. Then the shame comes and reminds me how normal it is for me to let someone down, especially the man I love. Then I want to cut, but I tell myself no because it will hurt you. But hey, I already hurt you all the time so why not add to it? Hurting you and hurting you, the same cycle, insanity. And I tell myself I am not good enough or good in general. I am not perfect (happy). I am not deserving of love…happiness…a beating heart. I remind myself every time I think of suicide that we exchanged hearts long ago. And the heart beating in my chest is not mine. If I kill this heart my body will stop, but I would go on living within your chest, memories, and thoughts. But you would walk amongst the world dead, unless you too stopped a heart which is not yours.
I went to write about you because you have been on my mind, but then I wrote the date. My heart dropped and my eyes watered. I miss him too. I really wish you were here right now. I could really use the distraction (even though that word choice seems harsh). I’m starting to cry now and I really wish you could hold me. Crying in your arms, a November 1st tradition.
RIP Daddy 11-01-11
Tonight I write through blurred vision. A vision which I have become accustomed to. And my body tightens trying to shrink smaller. I curl up praying that if I hide whatever this is will go away. As if when I am small it will just miss me. But this is not the case tonight nor any other night as a matter of fact. Yet this is still the innate defense my body goes to each time anything less than perfect occurs. Like my mind is just always on the verge of collapsing. It feels like part of me wants this. Part of me thrives in chaos. But I feel dead inside. And I just don’t understand how each time feels closer to death than the last. As I wait here my mind feels way too heavy to hold, and my body just doesn’t seem to be completely mine anymore. And each time I wait to lose control and die or wait until I wait until it happens again.
And my darkest secrets written in blood on my body. My suicidal thoughts always there even if expressed in another tongue. Right now more prominent than usual. It’s all I can think about right now. I want to punish myself for relapsing. I don’t want to cut. I want to actually hurt myself. The idea of me hurting myself stays on my mind. It feels like something building up and I’m tying to hold it in. Maybe cutting would help a little. I don’t know. All I know is I’m not okay and I feel like that’s not okay.
Times like this are the worst. When you can feel it coming. Feel it sitting on top of your chest. When part of your mind shuts down and another takes over. A habitual sadness which you retreat to when your body doesn’t know what else to feel. A constant fight to not cry because you are tires of “crying for no reason”. I feel so uncomfortable in my body. I feel trapped. I feel like I’m holding myself down. Chained to my own disaster, to my own being. I’m so tired of this feeling. I just want to die so it will go away.