And I can’t breathe…

When you cry. But I’ll be there to hold you tight.  And I would kill.  I would fight. To keep you close.

I’m a horrible person.  I’m a fuck up.  I think there’s a theme to my braining.  Or maybe there’s a theme to my life.  I fuck things up.  Every time I find someone worth telling my secrets to, and laughing with, I fuck everything up.  Who here is surprised?  Raise of hands?  Didn’t think so.  I want to scream, or cry, or both.  I want to run as far as I can, and never stop.  I want to use a sharp knife and drag it down my skin so it bleeds and drips and makes things real.

And I can’t say. And I don’t know how far I’ll go.  And I can’t say. And I don’t know how far I’ll go.  Gone away. 

I get tired of explaining my scars.  Cutting isn’t me trying to kill myself.  It isn’t trying to call for attention.  It isn’t a cry for help.  Plain and simple, it’s me trying to focus the emotional confusion of pain to something physical.  I can’t deal with emotional pain.  My brain and body can’t process it.  It doesn’t make sense.  Physical? Yes.  Physical makes sense.

 It’s the same old, same old song.  Gone away. It’s my whole life, in words.

Emotional abuse I take.  Always have. It doesn’t bother me.  Well, no that’s not the right way.  It doesn’t, uhm, I don’t understand it.  I’m used to it.  I don’t know what’s right and wrong.  I don’t know what I should or shouldn’t put up with, or when I should leave.  Physical abuse, however, that’s easy.  Hit me. I dare you.  I’m a world away.  — If I don’t fight back, first.

Do you pray in the night?  Can you appreciate the wind?  And I won’t care. I won’t fight. I need you close to sing. It’s the same beginning. Gone away.

I hurt someone close to me.  Probably the person I care most about.  I thought I was making a joke.  I’m an asshole. We all know this.  I make jokes. Sometimes mean jokes, sometimes nice jokes, sometimes bad jokes, sometimes good jokes.  Anyone who knows me expects this.  He caught part of it, and caught the response of someone else.  Between the two of us, it turned out bad.  I can’t apologize.  I try to, but he doesn’t trust me anymore.  … Shit.  There it is.  I just realized that.  Trust is everything to him.  Fuck.  Maybe that’s why I’m so panicked.  Why I know that I’m a horrible person.  Why I know that I fucked everything up.  Why I know how much I hurt him.  Oh gods. How could I do this?  Because I’m a horrible person.  Why does it still surprise me to realize this? Why does it ever shock me?  Fuck.  Sigh.  I give up.

I would fight to keep you close. I keep singing the same way. I won’t live, if you died, if I can feel you in the wind. And this is me, it’s my life. 



Come on make it easy

Say I never mattered. Run it up the flagpole.

Every time I try to explain my brain, it causes more pain and frustration. I don’t know who it hurts more, others or me.  I’m starting to get better at numbing down, I think.  Real life, that is. (Obviously not with my dream fuckery from the other night.) I’m so tired of fighting with people. Every time I open my mouth, a fight follows. I guess I really should go back to isolation. I just don’t know if I can trust myself anymore. Or anyone else to not fuck with my brain issues. 

It’s all over now. Before it has begun. 

I got a sketch pad tonight. I was sketching some. This is a good thing, I guess. I used to draw all the time to calm my brain. Except… the only time I’ve ever been able to draw well are under two conditions. I’m either drunk, or depressed to the point of, well, everyone knows where I’m at now. I need to either do it or sunshine up. Im teetering on the edge. Do you know you’ve almost pushed me too far? 

Tonight, the foxes hunt the hounds.

I’d forgotten how good cutting felt until I did it a few weeks ago, and now I want to do it again. I want to feel the hot sticky blood ooze down my arms. I want to feel it drip off of my skin. I want to smell it. I want to feel the physical pain so I can figure out how to handle this pain I can’t process. But I also want to go too deep. I want to see that deep dark red ooze, then slowly flow from that clean, razor sharp cut. I want to feel the dizziness that follows as it drains.

We are wild. We are like young volcanoes.

When do I ever get what I want?

I’m wasted, I still taste it.

The forecast, a car crash. It’s looking like another breakdown, rebound.

I had a night terror last night. It was bad.  Worst I’ve had in a long time.  It’s still rocking me all day today.  It’s been over 15 hours later, and I still can’t get it out of my head. Every time I close my eyes I can see bits and flashes. I can smell the smells, and hear the screams.  It won’t stop.  I’m sure there’s some kind of psycho babble to explain it.  Maybe I’m just going crazy-er.  Maybe I’m just trying to explain something to myself, to re-blame myself for things that’ve happened in the past, or explain something to happen in the future.  I’m a horrible person.

And I can’t deny your eyes, you know I try to read between the lines. I saw a warning sign, and then you threw me up against the wall.

There isn’t really any way to push the things out of my head when they get there. I’ve tried, but they tend to dig deeper.  I just wish I could make it stop. Claw out my eyes. Claw out my brains.  I woke up with a scream last night. Yowl?  Didn’t know where I was. Curled up in the corner, hyperventilating, couldn’t figure things out.  It was fucking terrifying.  I’m a horrible person.

I’m wasted, I still taste it.  Yeah it’s so hard to let go.  So breathe in now, and breathe it out.

It was all my fault.  But then again, when do I ever think it isn’t?  We were running.  It was run or die. The door was there. All we had to do was go through.  I closed the door. I had to.  I thought he’d made it through. I thought they’d all make it through. But they didn’t and I had to shut the door. And then the screaming started.  The gun shots. The choking. The gurgling sound of drowning in their own blood. I can smell the blood. It’s sickeningly sweet, ya know?  It has a metallic almost sugary smell. To me, anyway.  I can see the blood pooling under the door. The door that I had closed. That I had closed and locked everyone out. The few people who’d made it through looked at me in horror. I’D made the decision to close the door. The DOOR. It was my responsibility. They trusted me. I decided to let them all die. The blood was a bright red. It hadn’t even had a chance to darken yet. I can smell it.  The screams are few and far between after only a matter of seconds.  So much gone and so much sacrificed. But yet, I lived for what? For who?  I lost the only thing that mattered. I don’t know who it was, but he was the only thing that mattered to me. I thought he’d been through the door. And when I heard his yell before it was drowned out by the gunfire, I knew I was wrong.  I just stared at the door. Smelling the blood. Hearing the screams. Seeing the pool of death… All my fault. I condemned everyone to die. I’m a horrible person.

This could be my last goodbye. You cross your heart, I hope to die.

I can’t stop seeing it. It’s everywhere. The looks of horror, the sounds, the smells. I eventually fell back asleep and it wasn’t so bad.  But now that I’m awake it’s just as though I’m still asleep. It’s on replay.  Or maybe it just hasn’t stopped. Is it looping? Or is it just some kind of punishment?  Whose?  Mine? Someone else’s?  I’m a horrible person.

When you were going in alone, and all your different faces, and all your different ways are making everything a mess. 

I just can’t let things go, can I? I just can’t seem to get things out of my head. I can’t just walk away from the things that I want to, or need to.  Everything is just fucked up in there that it needs beaten out with a baseball bat.  I’m a horrible person.

Does it justify the end?

When all you needed was a friend?

It’s amazing how the things you thought were trivial and unimportant that you mentioned when you were trying to open up to a friend can come back to bite you in the ass.  It’s amazing how much they can hurt.  I don’t know why it surprises me.  It’s borderline amusing.  It reminds me of one of my favorite quotes from The Crow.  “Little things used to mean so much to Shelly.  I used to think they were kind of trivial.  Believe me, nothing is trivial.” It’s a valid point.  The little things matter.  So why is it, when I mention little things in passing that I don’t think about, that I’m surprised when they hurt later?  This IS coming from someone who is a completely selfish person, here.  I’ve been told that more times than I can count in the last month.  Granted, I’ve also been told that I need to do me, and figure out my thing, my brain, my needs, and then doing so is selfish? I can’t help but be confused.  I hate being confused, but it seems to be a solid state of mind of late.  Stress and confusion. So. Much. Fun.

Difficulty living with these scars. I wonder if you tried too hard. The shiver running down your spine. And no it’s not just in your mind. And the music plays along while you sing the same old song, of all the things we couldn’t see, and all the things we’ll never be…

I think my goal in life is to grow numb.  I want to not feel things.  Not feeling good things is worth not feeling bad things.  Hm. Well, is it?  I don’t know.  I sometimes think it is.  Okay, I often think it is, but it also doesn’t balance out for me.  I tend to have a major overload of un-good.  So, again I ask… Is it worth not feeling good to take away the bad, too?  I close my eyes and I replay every bad thing that’s ever happened over and over and over and over and over and over and over again in my head.  I don’t have a choice. It just does.  I can’t stop the flashes, the images, the bombardment of fresh trauma.

Tell me what you really wanna say, when you see me turn and walk away.  And now it’s rising up inside. Can you feel it now?  Can you feel it? I don’t feel the same.

There are parts of me that, despite being open about being broken and damaged goods, I still bury deep inside and lock away deep in a vault of my dome.  Inside of this vault are the pieces that still bleed raw.  They’ll never heal.  Like a necrotic wound, they rot and fester. They’re causing my brain to go septic. My medicines don’t touch those bits and parts, so I try to keep them tucked far away from the less-damaged grey matter.  Doesn’t work, but hey, let’s give me an A for effort, hm?  The stress is helping turn that key, though, it seems. I can’t seem to put enough weight against the door to shut it out.

Looking for the one to take your side. You think everything you say is right. You need it. Still you cannot break this chain, as you look for someone else to blame. And now it’s rising up again. Can you feel it now, can you feel it?

I keep forgetting to gullet my chalk.  I just can’t help but wonder if I’m forgetting, or subconsciously neglecting to. As much as I forget things, I suppose either is possible. Today I woke up and was hit by an amazingly huge stress balloon. All day I’ve been twitchy and shaky and just generally a spaz.  I need to find a way to deal with all of this.

I don’t mind. When you feel so hollow, and you’re feeling left behind. Let it die.

I need to start having better days soon. Life isn’t this bad all the time. Can’t be. I know it’s better for others. I just need to sneak into THAT party, instead of being over here in the leper colony.


6 Things People With Mental Illness Might Be Scared To Admit

I think this is one of the better written blogs on how it feels for me on a day-to-day basis. This is pretty much just it. These are my thoughts and fears, too.

Let's Queer Things Up!

You know, it’s possible that everything on this list is just me. But working in mental health advocacy for some time now, I’ve learned that it’s never really “just me” or “just you” – if we’re struggling, it’s almost guaranteed that someone out there knows that struggle.

Confession: I was hospitalized four months ago and I’ve been afraid – afraid of myself, afraid of my friends, afraid for my life – almost every minute since then.

Of course, I was scared to open up about it until I realized that it’s the fear that holds us back. If we never admit that we’re hurting, we can never find the support and reassurance that we need to pull through.

It’s true that I don’t know your story or your struggle. But I hope that, by knowing mine, you’ll feel less alone.

Because it’s okay to be scared – and you’d be surprised…

View original post 1,793 more words

Let’s write a song that we can dance to…

Cause they all want to listen, just to know how it sounds when I do that thing you know that I do. 

I have this friend. She’s been one of my best friends for years. She has this theory that I somehow make guys fall for me like it’s some kind of skill. I make them do it, then I break them.  I think she thinks it’s some kind of… I don’t want to say bragging right, because that’s not the right word.  Maybe self-esteem booster?  That I’m wanted?  But I don’t see it that way.  I feel like it’s another way for people to get hurt around me.  I learned a long time ago not to hide the fucked up parts of me, because it makes people think I’m a better person than I am.

I’ll have you know I’m scared to death that everything you had said to me was just a lie until you left. 

I won’t lie. I love the feeling of being adored.  It makes me feel alive.  But do I actively do it to hurt others? No. Not even that, but I don’t even actively do it that I know of.  I don’t know why anyone would enjoy breaking others.  Hell, I know  I used to.  I just don’t know why.  It hurts me as much as it does others.  Maybe I’ve developed a sense of empathy.  Or maybe I’ve stopped telling myself I don’t care?  I’m good at it.  Always have been.  When I do, I delete everything of them that I can find. Pictures, messages, emails, etc. Paper, that’s a little different.  But I’m working on that one.  I have lots of things to purge at some point.  I love paper, so it’s difficult to lose those things.

I should have been your everything. I’m now at the end of my eternity, and I will sleep to have the darkest dreams. This just won’t seem right to me. I close my eyes and beg for peace. 

How is it supposed to feel when you find your forever and all you can think of is how you’re going to next destroy that person and move on?  Does this make it a Black Widow Syndrome?  Does this mean I’m just paranoid? Does it mean I just need to buckle down and avoid people in general? Sometimes I think yes.

I’ll be fine, I swear. I’m just gone beyond repair.

Doesn’t mean I will, fuckers.