6 Small Lines Worth of an Update


Rough couple of weeks.

Break up
Depression
Self harm
Bridge visits
Lost time
Relapse

Sigh.

Now I am finding some solid ground to set my feet on to.

In other news, I shall turn this pain into art.

now
I drink alone
at this malfunctioning
machine

as the shadows assume
shapes
I fight the slow
retreat

now
my once-promise
dwindling
dwindling

now
lighting more cigarettes
pouring new
drinks

it has been a beautiful
fight

still
is

Bukowski

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Cut: an Autobiography- Trigger Warning-

Her name was Ally. She was my best guy-friends’ sister. She was older than I was by two years. Ally carried one of those black messenger bags adorned with pins, buttons, and patches. Her jeans were always ripped and her Slipknot shirts were always one size too big. I never spoke to her much. Her brother, Jose, adored her.

Jose and I met in seventh grade in drama class. I was sitting in the second-to-last row and Jose sat directly behind me. Our first day there, all of the students had to whip up a comedic skit and present it that same hour. Jose and I were paired. I forgot what the skit was about, but I do remember it being hilarious. We were friends ever since.

Being the 13-year-olds that we were, we shared secrets, feelings, dreams, and confessions. By this time, I was already being abused and was having an understandably hard time with life. I told him one day on the swing set that I wished, more than anything, to find a way to make the pain stop. He held my hand and thought very hard for a few minutes. Then, gently, he offered a possible solution.

“Ally cuts herself.”

Surprisingly, I had never heard of such a thing. I had self-mutilated my body before in different fashions, but I never knew that there was a name-not only a name, but an entire subculture. I looked at him inquisitively.

“I don’t know. She says it helps her go numb or some shit. She uses a razor blade.”

And just like that, I had found my solution.

That same night after our long talk on the swing set, I retreated to the safety of my bathroom. My grandma was sound asleep in her room and my grandpa was watching telenovelas. I carefully pulled out a razor blade from the medicine cabinet. Sitting on the toilet seat, I raised the left sleeve of my pajamas. My hands were clammy. I rested my arm on the porcelain, pressed the blade against my skin, and pulled. At first, I had only made cat scratches. But as I went on, the deeper the cuts became. My pajama bottoms became stained from the droplets of blood.

I felt an empyreal high. Jose was right. It had brought me great relief. I washed the blade off, and tucked it in a lock tin box I had, where I later kept an arrangement of blades, gauze, a small pair of scissors, and tape.

Now, I know how awfully clichéd this story is. I get it. Half the school, it seemed, listened to My Chemical Romance and wore black and pink checkered wristbands. The campus was full of them: emo kids flipping their bangs out of their face just enough to be able to see the dark poetry they would be scribbling on their hands. For a period of time, I was one of them. I purchased a God-awful amount of merchandise from Hot Topic. Chokers, black and green striped knee-high socks, black bracelets, safety pin earrings.

Cutting was a thing. It was subculture that quickly bloomed like red plush beneath an Exacto-knife. It gave people a sense of community. Misery loves company, I suppose.

I admit at first that I had felt some pride about being a “cutter.” As the scars developed, I was satisfied with myself. It wasn’t until my cousin draped my body over the bed that I realized I had a problem.

It was just like all the other nights. It was 12am. My grandparents were asleep. My cousin, who worked from home nocturnally, took a break. I had done this several times before. I knew exactly what to do. I escaped my body momentarily and watched us from the ceiling. Watched numbingly as he peeled articles of clothing off of me. Off came my pants. A gasp escaped from his lips and he pulled back. I was jolted back into my body. His face softened and I felt a lump in my throat. I had missed this tenderness.

“Baby, what did you do?”

It had been fine before. The cutting, I mean. I never thought it as dangerous. He ran his fingers over hours-old welts. He was shocked. I had at least 300 cuts on my body… my thighs, arms, hips, stomach, chest, anywhere I could reach. “Why did you do this?” I had no words for him. I knew he knew why. He wasn’t stupid. He’s a rapist, a pedophile, and a destroyer- but not a stupid man. He pulled me into his chest and I could hear him begin to cry.

A seemingly juvenile coping mechanism had turned into a ten year addiction.

Despite the countless nights of enduring my cousin, I had missed and longed for this paternal part of him. Perhaps it was Stockholm Syndrome. I let him cradle me and I felt safe. Little did I know that this act in itself was potentially more dangerous for me then the abuse; I quickly learned that my self-inflicted wounds served as a protective shield. The cuts bought me time. With each gash, he took on the paternal, caring role. Now, I realize that this was HIS game. I would take my clothes off willingly, because I was under the notion that he would check me every night out of concern. I thought that he cared. I often look back on my very visible scars on my thighs and remember that night on my bed, as my cousin held me, weeping.

I’ve read somewhere that the victim of incest and early sexual abuse can become wildly sexually confused and could essentially muddle compassion with arousal, so on so forth. I am ashamed to say this, for multiple reasons. However, I will say it in hopes that A) I’m not alone and B) maybe someone could know THEY’RE not alone. During some of these nights of check-ups, cuddling and “therapy” talks, I became aroused.

The cutting continued. Slowly, my family members began to notice the scars and long sleeves. Multiple interventions were held in my living room in efforts to get me to consider going to a adolescent rehab facility. While each person read words of concern from tiny sheets of paper, my cousin sat next to me, hand on my knee, making sure the family knew that he was my foundation. And no one suspected a thing.

This post was inspired by this Tumblr pic:


It made me think. I had never seen a self-harm picture that resonated with me like this one.

I am still addicted to cutting. The blade, ironically enough, has saved my life on many occasions. I struggle with it nearly every day. It does bother me that cutting has been equated to a fashion trend. It’s not. It’s cunning, dangerous, and destructive.

If you’re reading this and you also struggle with self-harm, I’d like to personally let you know that you are worth more than this addiction, and I love you.

I Keep Listening to Trent Reznor

I wish I could give a straight answer.. when she asks me, “What’s wrong?”… I wish I could be certain and say I’m just feeling depressed, or angry, or moody- any definitive answer would be great. It’s frustrating for her. It’s frustrating for me.

I feel like a broken record.

The closest feeling I can think of is empty. My handy thesaurus spits these synonyms out: cold, devoid, hollow, uninhabited, vacant, deflated, depleted, exhausted.

I keep drumming it up to the simple med change I’ve had. Maybe that’s it. It’s not ALL day, either. I feel okay most of the time. Sure, I have moments of wanting to take a pair of scissors to wrist, wanting to jump off of a building, that sort of thing. Fleeting feelings of which I will take no action upon.

Although, the paramedics that came to my aid last night seemed slightly convinced otherwise; they offered several times to drive me over to the hospital for an evaluation. I told them I was fine. I just had a panic attack. No big deal. I passed out and dissociated for a second. No big deal.

I have them quasi-frequently now. No big deal. I had a flashback the other morning of being pulled into a van, forced to go down on some guy. I kept hearing him say, “What did you do? What did you do?” over and over, because I bit down on him. Hard. No big deal.

And remember when I found my best friend in his back house when he tried to hang himself? We were in 8th grade. We’d walk to school together. He lives on the other side of the tracks, literally…. flashbacks.

No big deal.

As long as I keep myself cool, calm, and collected, I can handle anything that pops my way.

Goldie told me that it’s time for me to accept help again from everyone else. I did a fantastic job steering us away from immediate danger after his suicide, but now, I need to take a breath. Let the medication do it’s thing. Go to therapy. Accept help.

I’m having trouble asking for help. Since the very beginning of this month, I handled everything and made it through with minimal assistance. Now I’m experiencing a slight turbulence in regards to anxiety. But, I can do it.

I’m okay. I’m sorry I don’t have any straight answers… I have just felt floopered every now and then. I’m OKAY though. Everything is okay.

Usually, when I feel like this, I want to curl up and be held. Human contact, affection, warmth, love, familiarity. Right now, I want to crawl beneath the earth and bury myself. Do you see my predicament? I feel FINE. I’m not depressed. Yet, I want to simply disappear.

Maybe I just feel angry? Slightly hostile? Angry at what, I’m not entirely sure. Well, fuck, maybe that’s the emotion. I would love to punch something really hard.

It is kind of “that time of the month” as well. My hormones are just all jumbled up. No big deal.

Fuck it, scratch everything I just said. I’m totally okay.

I Got Married, Again

And thank God for medication.

I was spinning through that same thick, depressed depersonalization. I clutched a small little tablet of Ativan (we have a love/hate relationship, this pill), and about an hour later, I felt so much better. I felt a helluva lot better actually. Not to mention that I FINALLY slept like a normal human being after taking my Seroquel. I had kissed those 50 mgs and smiled with relief, ready to knock the fuck out.

Lorazepam. I left the pharmacy, got in my car, opened the paper bag and held the orange bottle. I stared at the words. Take 2 tablets twice a day as needed. October 2010, I got married to Ativan. We went to parties together, ate together, took drugs together, slept together. We even overdosed together. It was an abusive relationship, to say the least. But people change, right?

Now, as I promised my psychiatrist, things would be different.

As I held the orange bottle in my hand, I couldn’t help but laugh to myself. You fucked me over, I thought. If I promise to be good, you gotta promise to treat me right, too. It was like facing my mortal enemy after years of thinking they were dead, and there’s this weird sexual tension between us.

I feel more present, though I can’t say I totally feel like “myself.” I feel like there’s someone else resting against the back of my eyes, swinging their feet against the back of my throat.

October. I am enjoying and loathing the plethora of nostalgia seeping out of the ground.

It’s almost over.

Last night, we had a little going away gathering for my girlfriend, as she is moving on to greener pastures- a new job. We all had a great time as coworkers. I’m excited for her. Good things are coming into her life.

Tomorrow I have a therapy appointment. My insurance has changed due to open enrollment bullshit at work. We switched providers. Meaning, neither my therapist nor my new psychiatrist cover that insurance. I’m losing her. I’m just not. I literally have the BEST therapist. I’m sure I’ll figure something out.

Overall, as of right this second, I feel stable. Just not, totally me… whatever that means.

When I Kissed the Cement

Last night was difficult. I’m not even sure if I ever fell asleep. My body is tired, my eyes burn, I feel slightly off balance.

I sat out on my back porch steps watching the rain fall. I was on the phone with my girlfriend, sobbing, rocking myself back and forth. Just hours before, I was standing in the drizzle, talking to God like I always did, begging Him to please make it go away. I bent down to the floor and kissed the warm cement repeatedly, waiting to feel absolution.

I haven’t been this despondent since February.

I texted my therapist telling her I felt suicidal and I’m too scared to admit myself into a hospital. I don’t even know if that would be the right move. I keep waiting for this to go away. Tomorrow, it’ll be better again. I’ll be happy and cheery, this mess will be behind me. Yet tomorrow has shown its face over and over again. I’m not getting better.

I feel as if I’ve contracted an illness and all I can do is rest, try to recover. I know I’m not alone, but I feel like I am.

Perhaps going back to group would behoove my mental crises. I have no idea.

Last night was really painful.

Bedrooms and Bipolar Flicks

As I sat in the movie theater, the lights above me darkened and the noise began to dull. Somewhere from behind my eyes, tears pushed themselves and hurdled onto my unsuspecting lap. Surrounded by an audience of 40 people or so, how could I feel so alone?

The familiar “movie feeling” has infected my every thought again. Nothing feels real, and when it does, it passes by me so quickly that I barely have time to enjoy it.

I am depressed. 

Hello, friend, with your dark cape and roots. Have you packed a bag? If so, you know where the sofa is. Would you care for sugar in your tea as well? No? That’s right…you like it bitter. I’ll be over here…well, you know where to find me…

At first, I thought that the episode was the usual two day bug. It’s been 22 days since I looked out the hotel window from the 22nd floor and really wondered if I would die on impact.

Wow. 22 days. It feels like it’s only been about a week. I’m looking at my calendar right now in disbelief. Almost a month. It’s scary. Actually, terrifying, usually. I lose myself. But what’s really terrifying is when I stop being terrified. Instead, I feel nothing. Instead, death no longer frightens me.

What a fucked up illness. There’s not even a “problem.” There’s nothing to solve. You ride it, or it rides you. Unfortunately, we’re too tired to strap on our riding boots, so we become the buck.

I want to be held. All night, never to be let go. And if I wake up crying, fuck it, let me lie there and cry it out. Hold on to me so I don’t have to hold on to myself. Because I can’t.

What a maudlin rant. Excuse me, bloggees and bloggers.

This weekend, my girlfriend’s friend came in from out of state, I did have a great time with them both. I thoroughly enjoyed the laughs and meals we all shared together. The weather has been very out of character for California. We are experiencing humid thunderstorms and heavy rain. It’s my favorite weather, minus the suffocating humidity floating in the air. It’s nice for a while, though.

Tonight we watched Infinitely Polar Bear in the theater. It was a GREAT movie. I don’t normally give reviews of any kind on my blog, but this is worth a watch. It’s about a manic depressive father who is basically raising two daughters on his own because his wife and mother of his children decides to pursue her education. I’ll post the trailer so you can check it out…

It was interesting to watch the translation of an adult living with bipolar disorder. The movie made me think of my own future as a parent- something I think of frequently.

The system has kept quiet and have retreated to their respective bedrooms. Or, maybe I’ve retreated to mine and I’m just unaware of them. Dee leaves me notes every now and then. Allie is taking care of Senka. Rogue is sad and isn’t doing so well.

This is what the hallways looks like:

1989c_40hallway-contThis is what the common room looks like:

1989c_37blue-room-reverse

In other news, my girlfriend has cut my hair short! I like it.

Waste Basket- Triggers

My thoughts this morning as I lay crumpled in tears next to my sleepy girlfriend: (not for the faint of heart. suicide, drugs, self mutilation)

1. I wonder what was going through my father’s mind as he injected himself one last time with his lethal opiate cocktail. I wonder what he was thinking when he wrote his last letter, his farewell memo. Did he see my face, my brother’s, or sister’s? Did he really think the world would shine brighter without him in it? I wish I could remember what he smelled like, how his arm muscles felt when he picked me up, or how his face wrinkled when he smiled. I wish I could remember his voice. Remember, Dad, when you wrote me my first birthday card? How you said you’d always be there for me and I was your little sweetheart?

2. My grandfather. His Alzheimer’s took over. He had always been my dad; taught me how to ride a bike, how to build with nails and wood, how to weld metal, how to dance Cumbia and Salsa. He taught me about music like Glenn Miller, Arite Shaw, Frank Sinatra. He showed me my culture, the language, the passion. When the family first found out that I had been cutting and had become suicidal, he looked at me with a heavy heart and said, “What happened to my little girl? You used to follow me around like a puppy. Now, you barely even say goodnight to me.” I had hit that teen angst, and I was sucked into solitude. It had hurt him that I had become apathetic and unresponsive. Fast forward a few years when his memory was being eaten alive. I called my grandparents house. He answered with a shaky voice, “Mija, when are you coming back?” I had moved out of the house at that point. I was impatient on the phone… “Soon, Tata, soon…” The regrets I bare now are unbearable.

3. Am I a selfish person? Like my father? My grandfather, in his own and old way was begging to see me before he forgot my face. I was so wrapped up in my own selfish little world. Why couldn’t I have looked past my irrelevant bubble to see his human desperation?

4. I must have felt what my dad felt the moment he boiled his tar. Years ago, I too sat in my bedroom, saturated with benzos. I relived it this morning whilst thinking of it. I had clutched these bottles of pills in my hands, thoroughly weighing the pros and cons of my suicide. In the past, it had hurt to realize there were more pros. This time, however, something terrible had shifted within me and I felt peace. Everything would be okay. I hope to never lose myself again to the irreparable ideation. What a terrifying place to be… no longer able to feel emotion, ready to pull the trigger, to jump, to inject, to inhale, to swallow and hang.

5. I want drugs. Anything I can snort. I want to sift through all the drawers here and find as many hydrocodones and I can. Crush, snort, repeat.

6. Will I ever meet my mom? Do I even care anymore? I’m embarrassed to admit to anyone that nearly every time I call her, she sounds high. Sometimes it doesn’t even register to her that she’s talking to me. I call her on my way home from work, she blames it on her exhaustion. Until I hear her husband in the background, “Come back baby, one more hit.” I stay on the phone, pushing back tears. I just want her to talk to me. I just want to tell her about my day. Mom, I’m having a hard time, please for fucks sakes, can you please just listen to my problems for once? Even if you don’t care? I hang the phone up, left to my own thoughts, feelings, fear. I go home, panicked because I’m home alone. I’m drawn to the bathroom cabinet like a moth to a flame. I fill the bathroom sink up with water, take out a razor blade, and hold my wrist under the faucet. This is not the answer…. put the blade away. I crawl under my sheets, text my girlfriend and cry.

7. How much more of this can I hold on to? I’ve lived my entire life with the magnificent ability to control my emotions, to eat them like air. Down they go to lie. I am beginning to feel sick and one by one, they come bellowing out from my stomach. I feel too humiliated to ask for help. “It’s always something, isn’t it? You should be better by now. Come on, we’re all going through something.” I’m just sad. I’m sad about Father’s Day, I’m sad that my mom can’t even hold a sober conversation with me, I’m sad that I’m sad.

8. Okay, Lazarus, that’s enough emotion for you now. Suck it back down

down

down

down

Lesson Learned, Take Your Meds

Good morning everyone, good afternoon for some. I am tired, yet in a much better mood! This weekend was difficult. As my recent posts have indicated, I have been feeling rather floopered and suicidal. This weekend was no exception. Friday night….I don’t even want to discuss Friday.

Saturday, I woke up on my sofa, still drunk from the night before- I hadn’t taken my medication (or the night before) and I decided it would be a good idea to drink an entire bottle of wine instead.
I had been throwing up hours prior to this. Every 15 minutes I would wake up, disappointed that I was even in existence. After I woke up, I tried to pull myself together and drank some water. My ex came out of the bedroom, already dressed, and said, “I’m staying at my mom’s for the weekend.” Off he went.

I was alone. I flew into panic mode. Separation anxiety I suppose. I closed all of the blinds in the house, threw sheets over them to make it darker, and listened to the saddest damn music I could find. I sobbed and paced circles in my living room clutching scissors in my fist, pausing periodically to etch bits into my wrists and thighs. I crumbled into a ball on the floor, shivering with depression, really thinking, “Why can’t I just kill myself already?”

My girlfriend continued to text me throughout the day. Half of me felt bad and I didn’t want her to know that I was once again so close to placing my head in the oven. The other half of me believed she was angry and really didn’t give a flying fuck what the hell I was doing- which made me feel worse.
I was home alone, felt to deal with my suicidal thoughts and the hallucinations. How the hell did I survive that…?

She came to my house later in the afternoon on Saturday. I felt better with her there. It took a while for my insides to stop feeling so tormented, but sure enough, I began to feel more stable.
Sunday morning was much better. I felt more grounded and actually felt motivated to do something. The morning was a little tough, physically. I hadn’t eaten in two days nor had I been on my meds. I took 300 mg of lithium in the morning and my body freaked out, shaking hard and involuntarily. After a few minutes it passed. I was also sweating through the night on Saturday, even though I was freezing.

But- Sunday got better. And I felt happier in the end. We did some laundry, and she helped me find a pill container to help me take my meds! Hooray! I also wrote down some affirmations to counter the negative, “you are so worthless, nobody loves you” thoughts.

I really do want to get better. I want to be able to be me again, to feel strong and secure in myself, even through muck. I think I can do it!

Rapid Cycling, a Guest Writer, and PNES

 

I am cycling faster than an Olympic Triathlete. And I’m tired of it.

I am depleted, depressed, deranged, and desperate. I want to say the hallucinations are better, but with the influx of anxiety at work, I am still swimming through teeming auditory hallucinations. I’m frustrated. I am not a fun person to be around right now. Every little thing sets me off either into a fuming rage, or into a morose melancholy in which I sit in to ponder my existential purpose.

On top of this, I want a drink. OH I want a tequila shot. Or a glass of wine. I’m itching and I cannot remedy the cravings with grape juice anymore.

On another note, I’d like to introduce a guest writer- my girlfriend. I wanted her to recall what happened on Thursday night, since I feel it’s important.

Without much further ado, COME ON DOWWWWWNNNNNNNN

 In regards to what happened last night, there was a certain familiarity to the situation. There was a loss of touch with reality, a sense of fear (mostly emanating from me), and what I would describe as a kind of takeover.

Simply enough, she and I were laying in bed. She sat up and blankly stared ahead. I asked what was wrong, and she told me she didn’t feel too well – that she felt a bit hypoglycemic. So off I went into the kitchen to get a glass of whatever I could find which ended up being some flat soda. After drinking it, her hands stopped shaking and she just laid back down. No more than 10 minutes had passed after this incident when I got up to get dressed. I stood at the edge of the bed while she began to sit up and addressed me. She looked at me mischievously, and in the most tauntingly devious, callous tone of voice she began to talk. This was the dialogue:

“Oh, you don’t want to fuck me first?”

“What?”

“I fucked you, why wouldn’t you fuck me?”

“Why are you saying that?”

“Come here baby, *makes kissy noises* OH, I loooove you.”

At this, she began to slyly grin. Her hand was reaching out for me – she wanted me to come sit down next to her. She dropped her gaze, bowed her head, with her hand still in the air, she got really quiet and began to cry. I sat down and looked at her and asked her to come back to me, since she was far gone at this point. When she stopped crying, she looked up with a manic grin behind her eyes, and I realized she was dripping blood from her mouth. She looked at me in the same way she had just moments before, and said “You’re sure you don’t want to fuck me now? Come on babe, I’m right here.” This is when she began to have what appeared to be a seizure. It was a slow onset; she began shaking lightly, then more and more violently. This lasted for about a minute and half. As she shook, blood dripped from her mouth, down her chin, and onto her thigh. I wiped it up with my hands and went to go get a towel or something in the bathroom. I was gone less than ten seconds, and when I came back her head was back down and she was no longer ‘seizing’. Her voice changed to the voice I’m most familiar with, and a meek “I don’t feel well, babe” escaped her lips.

I pulled her towards me, and she was confused. I asked her to get dressed, to put her pants on. She kept coming back to me. Her eyes slowly unglazed and she came back to reality. I guided her to the bathroom and when she saw herself in the mirror she asked why she was bleeding. We then realized that she had bitten and chewed the inside of her lip and that’s where the blood was coming from (this to much a relief for me, since my first thought was that she had been back to using drugs without my knowledge; this wouldn’t be the first time she bled from her mouth in that manner).

She, for a couple of minutes, had completely dissociated and removed herself from present time. She had no recollection of what had happened. She remembered laying down after drinking the flat cola, then coming to, when I was asking her to put her pants on.

All I could do was lay back down with her, assuring her everything was okay, that I loved her and that I was here for her.

Also, because she cares so much for me, or maybe she was just scared out of her mind (because who wouldn’t be), she did a little research and learned about Psychogenic NonEpileptic Seizures (PNES). According this website:

“PNES are attacks that may look like epileptic seizures, but are not caused by abnormal brain electrical discharges. They are a manifestation of psychological distress. Frequently, patients with PNES may look like they are experiencing generalized convulsions similar to tonic clonic seizures with falling and shaking. Less frequently, PNES may mimic absence seizures or complex partial seizures with temporary loss of attention or staring.

A specific traumatic event, such as physical or sexual abuse, incest, divorce, death of a loved one, or other great loss or sudden change, can be identified in many patients with PNES.”

I’m not self diagnosing. I will bring this up to my doctor, however, does anyone out there have feedback, and/or experience with PNES, or dissociation? I want to know I’m not alone here.

I wrote this to my girlfriend yesterday and it describes how I feel:

I feel as if the dust of my childhood had settled for years and years on the attic floor, untouched and unbothered by light or a footstep. Now, I’ve let people into the attic- doors and windows splayed open. The wind is tossing all of the dust into a flurry, illuminated by bright sunlight. And I’m in the middle of it all, gazing at the floor, remembering that the wood panels below had etchings and designs. My lungs are contracting, wheezing, and coughing from all of the dust. All the while, everyone else around me is well equipped with masks.

I think that through group, I have been rustling up my past memories. Yesterday I actually had a flashback to my molestation. As I ran to the restroom at work, I kept thinking over and over, there’s nowhere for me to hide. Not a crease, nor crack. There is no place where the pain won’t reach me. So, I cried in the stall and cut my wrist to quiet it down.

My girlfriend made a great point (again. She’s great). In regards to me telling her that I don’t think I’m getting better- I mean I WAS feeling better, but I crashed again. She said that when I was first admitted, I handled the immediate situation. I got meds, I was in therapy, I talked out my immediate issues and felt better. However, we all now that mental illness isn’t cured by wiping the superficial grime off of ourselves; I began digging deeper and finally hit the center of my earth. My childhood and past. It’s hitting me like a truck now.

I know I’ll be alright, though. I need to keep thanking those around me for simply being there for me. I’m a wreck right now.

Morris- Reader’s Discretion Advised

I reached my psychotic point yesterday after my last post.

Morris came back.

I think I was just really scared. I couldn’t tell you exactly what I heard or what happened from the time I grabbed the scissors to when she arrived panic-stricken to my apartment and pulled me out of the bath water. My wrists, legs, and some of my chest are cut. All I could hear him say is how much of a failure I was because I didn’t cut deep enough. They’re just casual scratches, even though they hurt pretty bad.

I wanted to kill myself yesterday. Not just because I was unbearably sad, but because I was driven so mad by Morris, by the voices, by the hallucinations in front of my face. I felt like I was a different person completely. It carried on through the night. I woke up somewhere around midnight. She slept peacefully next to me, guarding me, ready to hold me if I let a whimper of uncomfortableness out. I laid there next to her, and stared at my wrists in the dim light of the bedroom. Why do I keep doing this? Why do I keep worrying people around me? What’s wrong with me?

My boyfriend called me last night and wondered if I even wanted him to come back home. He was frustrated because my voice was monotone and indifferent. I was frustrated because I didn’t know how to make myself sound livelier, or at least sound like I cared more. I feel like such a bitch. I told him I was just going through a hard mental time, I’m depressed, I’m on self-destruct mode. When he does come home, he’ll have a field day with the cuts on my body. If there’s one thing he can’t handle and won’t stand for, it’s self-mutilation. He’s told me that multiple times before. I guess I understand. However, now I feel like a scared puppy who unknowingly ripped apart my person’s favorite shoes….teeth-grindingly awaiting his return, the newspaper WHAM against my guilty nose.

I suppose I feel better today. Although, the pangs of hopelessness, self-hatred and worthlessness are ever present, kicking around like preschoolers in the community pool, screaming and mocking my February 22nd existence.