A place basically for me to just clear my head. It probably doesn't really belong in this section of the forum, but it's here. Read if you want to, but I wouldn't advise it. It's just a thread containing my deepest 3am thoughts.
Where did it start? What made me fall for you? I don't really know.
Maybe it was that half smile of yours, or the way that your laugh lights up your face as well as the room that you're in. Perhaps it was the way that it was so easy to talk to you about anything and everything. Your love for dogs didn't hurt. The way that you talk about the things that you love and care about.... I could listen to you go on all day about it.
I'm not sure why I'm writing this. You'll never see it. But if you did, by some miracle, you'd know that I was talking to you. Because you are the only one that I want to talk to. The person that I need to talk to. The only person that I care for. And honestly, that scares me. Because one day, there is going to come a time where you will get tired of me pushing your buttons. A day where you wake up and realize that I'm not worthy of a second of your time. And I don't want to lose you. I can't lose you.
Every waking moment of my day is filled with the though of you. My nightmares are filled with losing you - in some way, shape or form. I couldn't bear it. I can't bear it. Waking up in the middle of the night, the blankets kicked off my bed, screaming, but no sound coming from my throat. I'd never want you to see me like that. Ever. Hence why I keep things bottled up inside of me. I don't want my demons to consume you like they have me. I've seen the way that you act when I tell you these things; heard the panic in your voice. I want to protect you from me, of all things. So why is it that I keep letting you get closer and closer? Why don't I just push you away? Sometimes I think that would be better.
It's currently one in the morning as I slide my fingers quietly across the keyboard, careful as to not make any noise. The dog sleeps at the foot of my bed, and the house is quiet except for the gentle clicking of the keys. My room is quiet, dimly lit from the light of my laptop. I'm not sure why I can't sleep. I don't seem to be doing much of it lately. My thoughts are consumed by that of which I can barely explain to myself, much less anyone else.
I get up and walk across the cool floor, opening the blinds as I look at the moon and stars - a sight that has always comforted me. I wonder if you ever did the same. Look up at the sky and think of me, I mean? Truth to be told, you probably don't think of me no where near as much as I do you.
There are a million things that I want to say. Could say. Need to say. To clear the air and my mind. The truth is, I know I've all but lost you. You were, and still are, one of my greatest friends. The one that I could tell anything to without being judged. Our conversations could go from casual and goofy to serious and dark and then back again in a matter of seconds. I always felt that you understood me. No matter what happened, you never got angry with me, even when it was blatantly my fault. Even when you should have yelled... you never did. I know that I've let you down. By not telling you everything... by not always being there. I've tried my hardest not to break that promise, but yet I still feel you slipping away from me. Every conversation that we have anymore is nothing but small talk, it seems, and it pains me to my core. How come I can't talk to you like I used to?
I'll sit here on my bed and take a deep breath. I know you're better off without me.
The truth is, the answer is no. I'm not doing fine. I'm not okay. I can't sleep. I don't hardly eat anything anymore. I don't leave my house unless I am forced to. I talk to maybe two people on a daily basis, and even then its only for maybe five minutes. I don't want to talk to or be around anyone. I want to stay locked in my room, with the lights off, laying in bed all day. I lay awake at night trapped inside my head staring at the walls and the cealing. The thoughts that go through my head, I would never dare to tell anyone. Part of that is because I'm scared, the other half is because I wish to protect them.
The people that I would tell this to have their own problems and responsibilities to sort through. Why would I want to bother them and make them potentially worry about me more than they already do? I've thought about doing something irreversably stupid so many times. They tell me that it will be okay, but of course they'd tell me that. Their mind isn't trying to kill them. I just simply don't see the point in living anymore. I dissapoint everyone around me. I'll never live up to their expectations. I know that I shouldn't be trying to be who others want me to, but... I just want to make everyone happy. I don't want to be here anymore. I'm done trying to fix myself. I've tried for what seems like forever to do so, and it never works. I've just given up on everything and everyone - especially myself. I've been telling myself for what seems like forever that it'll get better, and all I'm doing is shoving a lie down my throat. Things don't get better. They get worse and worse and worse until you eventually hit rock bottom and then you're just stuck in this permanent state of Hell and you feel like there's nothing you can do about it.
You go online and you research and you know you're not the only person that feels numb day in and day out, but you still feel alone, like you're the only one. You do research on all these things that you can do to fix yourself, and none of them help. According to most, depression is a choice. I never chose to feel this goddamned way. My parents look at me and tell me they have no idea who I am anymore. Guess what? Me either. I lost myself a long time ago. Everyone wants me to smile, and laugh, and be happy all the time and I just can't do that anymore. I just... I know this probably just sounds like a bunch of random thoughts, and it is, but there's just so many things that I want and need to say to someone - anyone - and, well... you've been asking me.
Anger. To most, it was nothing more than a passing emotion; something found in the heat of the moment. To her, however, anger had a face, and he sat right there in front of her, leisurely, by the window. Anger was harsh, but there was also beauty in it, and the young man was proof of this testimony. Anger had a sharp jawline, and high cheekbones; anger seemed to be made of nothing but dangerous angles while his fair hair taunted her, begging for her to run her fingers through it. Anger was confident. Anger was raw and unapologetic - he took no prisoners. But most of all, anger was beautiful. He met her gaze, His eyes with their playful glimmer beckoned, calling her closer but keeping her froze in place all the same. Anger appeared to be simplistic on the surface, but if one dare dig deeper, they would find its secrets. The truth was: He ever so slightly scared her. Though playful at the moment, she was well accustomed to the ferocity that his eyes obtained more often than not. The way he held himself - always guarded. His words were often mean and short - to the point. So mean, in fact, that she could swear that she sometimes felt the sting of the m upon her skin. And from all of this, she somehow knew, that he, too, was broken. Maybe not as much as her, but he had his fair share of demons. Anger was like a methodical lion, and she, his captivated prey, standing there stupidly. Anger was cunningly beautiful, depraved, and cynical. She would never want him to change.
Sadness. Many authors had try to analyze it. Artists tried to depict it, and musicians tried to make you feel it. All of their efforts have failed in one way or another. Sadness is a complex thing, taking on many different forms, and felt in many different variations. Anyone who had ever tried to analyze, depict, or make you feel it had only focused on one aspect. If you asked the man, he would say that was what angered him most about her. She thought of herself as simple and one dimensional. He, on the other hand, saw every side of her: Every shed tear, every shade of blue, and every word left unsaid. How could she ever water herself down like that? It only made him love her more.
There is the simple sadness. The kind where one might shed a tear over a beloved book series or TV show coming to an end. This was the sadness that she let people see from time to time. You could see it in her eyes, when they traded in their mischievous glimmer for a look of exhaustion. Her tone of voice would become quiet, and the way that she held herself suggested that if you dared to ask, she might just spill her thoughts. Because the truth was, she did need a release every once in a while.
Then there is the sort of sadness that creeps up on you and feels like it lingers there for a lifetime. She only allows those closest to her to see it. She'll stare off into space, isolate herself, avoid eye contact, and never say any more than three words at a time. Last, but not least, there is an overwhelming sort of sadness - his personal favorite. During this time, her cheeks would be flushed; her eyes tinged with red. Her face would be soaked where she had allowed the salty tears to flow freely. Her lips would be a few shades darker from where she had bitten them - a weak attempt at trying to regain self control. Nimble fingers would reach for her throat, to play with the charm on her necklace - a nervous habit. Her hair would fall wildly in an attempt to hide her face. It was times like these when she became angry and bitter. He had never seen someone show so much raw and pure emotion then when she did during these times. This was when he found her to be absolutely breathtaking.
When she got this way, she would say whatever was on her mind. There was many a time where she had claimed to have felt nothing but numbness; times where she begged to be left alone, and he refused to leave her. There were times where they stayed up into the earliest hours of the morning. She would talk, and he would listen. He knew the deepest, darkest, most hidden parts of her soul. Oh, how he loved the darkness within her - how it completely and utterly fascinated him.
There had also been times where he had wrapped her in a fierce hug, as if her could shield her from all the bad things in the world. Time where he buried his face in the hair at the nape of her neck. He would listen to the steady sound of her breathing, and during the times where she said she didn't know if she was dead or alive - that sometimes she thought of a nightmare that she might one day wake from - he would take her hand in his and place it over her beating heart. A reminder that she was, indeed, alive.
Sure, he loved the moments where she let herself cry freely, but he also cherished the moments when she really smiled, the smiles she didn't fake - the ones where her eyes lit up. The sound of her laugh brought him joy unlike which he had ever known.
Many people would tell you that happiness countered anger, and they would be right, for happiness countered lots of things. But in their case, sadness countered anger. Though her soul was set in darkness, she was his guiding light. She needed him, and in some strange way, her needed her, too. He needed her there to calm him during his rages, to let him know everything was going to be alright - even if she didn't believe it herself. To tell him that he hadn't become the monster he believed himself to be.
You spit your lies through crooked teeth, I watch as your kingdom crumbles from beneath. A change that didn't work But at least it made the demons smirk. Freshly shed tears Your mind endlessly turning like gears Screaming at the walls Oh, how the might will fall. Your world falls to ashes As you watch through darkened lashes Will you rise to sieze the day, Or simply let it fade away?
There are things in life which you will never see.
From the way she clenches her jaw in frustration, to the way her eyes never meet another's for more than a few seconds at a time. Nails digging into her palms to make crescent shapes. Lips bitten bloody with words unsaid. You will see nothing but the brightest smile, and this is how she wishes it to be.
There are things in life which you will never hear.
Silent screams and hushed whispers in the night. The way she stutters in self doubt. Quiet conversations with herself to try and make sense of it all. You will hear only the most cheerful laughs, and this is how she wishes it to be.
There are things in life which you will never feel.
How hollow she is inside. The blinding rushes of anger. No one will ever know the way her heart feels when it shatters. How it feels to be silenced, and afraid to speak your mind. No one will ever feel the constant presence of sadness. You will only feel happiness when she is around, and this is how she wishes it to be.
There are things in life which you will never know.
How the ticking of the clock is a constant reminder of her life wasted. Never know how she is her own worst enemy. No one will ever know how many times she has pondered over their words at night - good or bad. You will only know what she allows you to know, and this is how she wishes it to be.
You will never notice her fading away, and this is how she wishes it to be.
Crazy. Insane. Basket case. Pshyco. She had been called these and many more. Not for a single second had she ever thought that those words had applied to her. Not until now.
Truth to be told, she had thought them many times, but the thought had always been pushed to the back of her mind. Those words were usually meant to be used to offend someone. They were dirty words that came with their own stigmas and stereotypes. So why did she think that they all of the sudden applied to her now? Because her mind was more of mess than it had ever been.
She believed herself to be going insane; to be losing her mind. So what was the evidence upon which she was basing her claims?
There was the semi-normal things: Having full fledged conversations with the walls. Screaming into her pillows. Chewing her jaw until it was bloody. Then there were the more questionable things. Not speaking to anyone unless forcerd to or asked a direct question. Flinching away whenever someone tried to touch her. Hardly leaving the house. Not eating, sleeping, or drinking for days at a time. Last but not least, there were the things that scared her the most. Forgetting how to breathe. Crying without realizing it. How harming herself felt like a way to be in control of something.
People often joked that she had a death wish, but thetopic was most definitely up for debate. Sometimes she'd sit on the very edge of the cliff. Other times she would accidentally on purpose forget to look before crossing the street.
Maybe these so called signs were rubish, but it sure as hell felt like she was losing her mind.
If you were to ask, she would tell you that she wasn't afraid of anything. And in a way, that was true. She wasn't scared of 'normal people stuff like heights, spiders, or the ocean. No. She was scared of unconditional love, actually living, and - for some strange reason - not being able to see the stars.
She was a confusing little mess. She knew that hope was fatal, but held on to it anyway. She cried when she was angry, not when she was sad. She was bitter, but kind. Scared but brave. Smart but naive. Emotional but numb.
The word insane was one she usually took as a silly sort of compliment. Now it scared her.
Is she really losing her sanity? Well, dear reader, I guess you'll have to stay tuned to find out.
I'm having one of my bad days again, and I'm sorry. I've locked myself in my room with the lights off and the blinds shut because this is where I feel comfortable. I'm sorry I didn't want to leave with you when you asked. I just don't feel like doing much of anything right now.
My life is falling apart and coming together all at the same time. There are certain times when my smile no longer feels fake. When I'm laughing with the people I care about, I sometimes get a little high off the feeling. I'm doing things that I have always wanted. I am becoming the person who I was meant to be. But at the same time, I am still the broken, bitter, sad girl that I have always been. Sure, I feel happy from time to time, but after those few short moments, I always go back to being angry. I sometimes wish that I could just go back to being sad all the time, but instead I have reached a point to where I am either anger or nothing. I am always angry - mostly at myself.
I wish I could just say what was on my mind. Let the words roll off my tongue as they please. Instead I am scared of the damage that my words may do. That I'll slip and you'll find out something that would hurt you, because heaven knows if you knew half the shit that went through my mind, you'd probably have me locked up and have pills shoved down my throat. That or you'd look at me like I needed fixing. Like you pity me. Like you're scared. Because that's the way you always look at me. That's the way you all look at me, and you'd do it again.
You see, I don't want to be saved. I never asked to be saved. But you all sit there and think to yourself 'I can fix her.' No you can't. I've been trying to fix myself for years now, ya know? And I've gotten no where. I'm only eighteen. I've felt this way since I was twelve. Twelve. It may not seem like that bit of a deal, but when you think about it, I've been wasting away for a third of my life.
"You have your whole life ahead of you," they say.
I know this. But the future scares me. I know who I want to be. I know where I want to go and what I want to do. But what if I mess it up like I have everything else in life?
"You're so brave."
Why? Because I stood on the edge of the cliff to stare down at the ground beneath? That's not bravery. That's the death wish. That's me wishing I had the nerve to jump.
"There's no way that you feel the way that you say you do. There's nothing wrong with your life. There's nothing to be sad about."
You think I don't know this? You think that I don't know that I have people who care about me? You think that I don't know that I have a place to call home, a bed to sleep in, food to eat and clothes on my back? I am grateful for these things, but I am not happy just because I have them.
"I guess you don't care."
I do care. I've always cared - maybe a bit to much, actually. If the world stop turning tomorrow, I would still care. Even in my darkest of hours, I have never stopped caring. I've tried to turn off my emotions, but I can't stop caring for others. I can't stop trying to help.
What I need you all to understand is that I'm trying. I am working to fix myself. Working to become a better person. I am trying to feel normal again. I am trying to live my life carefree and without regrets. I am trying to make you proud.
I want to thank you. I know that it's pointless, because you'll never see this. Even if you did, you'd just laugh and roll your eyes at me. You used to do that a lot. But back to the point. I want to thank you for helping me become the person that I am today.
Firstly, thank you for being my friend. I cherished every moment we were together, and sometimes I even still find myself smiling at the memories. I loved you as a best friend should. Thank you for teaching me that no matter how much you love someone, they'll always hurt you. I'm not sure where along the line you started changing from the person that I cared about into the person that I couldn't stand. But you changed, and so did I.
I told you everything, especially the way I felt. Everytime I opened up, you ignored me. You taught me that even the ones closest to us don't care, and that my feelings were not and are not valued. Through you, I learned that emotions were weakness, and that they could be used to hurt you.
You blamed me for everything. Half the things you blamed me for didn't even have anything to do with me. All I ever did in response was say sorry. I still do that, you know? Say I'm sorry to everyone about anything. Don't worry - most people think it's adorable. I, on the other hand, can't stand it. You showed me what it feels like to be pushed away; to be used up and cast aside. You taught me how that felt, so I wouldn't want to do it to anyone myself.
Perhaps I'm wording this wrong. I almost sound like I hate you. I don't. You just disapointed me. I want you to know that I'm not blaming you for anything. I already felt a certain way about the world before you ever came along. I put my faith in you, and you showed me that my worst assumptions were the greatest of truths. So perhaps you disapointing me was my fault.
In a way, you made me bitter. Yet you made me kinder all the same.
Today I received the news that you were gone. You hadn't moved away, you hadn't gone on vacation. You were dead. You... are... dead. I received the news a month late, but that didn't dull the pain. We were never that close, but I used to sit and wait, wishing that you got on the bus each morning so you could tell me one of your famous jokes. I always thought you had a nice smile, and when I was down, you always did your best to make me feel better. No, we weren't that close. But I considered you a friend - a light in my own darkness. The darkness that blinded me so I couldn't see what you were going through.
We lost contact for a while, and I can't help but wonder if maybe I could have helped you. If we hadn't stopped talking, would you have messaged me that night? Could I have talked you out of it? Yes, maybe I'm being selfish by blaming myself, but I wish you would have come to me. I wish you would have come to anyone.
I know I'm to late do anything - to late to say anything. But you were cared for, my friend. Everyone agreed, and still agrees, that your family was and is so close. There was me, and my crazy brothers. I know you touched all of our lives, especially mine. No, we were never that close, but you left me with a handful of memories that I keep remembering from time to time to make the bad times better. I keep remembering those pep talks in the back seats. And the more I think, the more I remember the warning signs.
I could ask you why you did it, but I already know. I wish there was something I could have done.
You traded sunsets for late night fights. You traded pillow forts for bruised covered arms. You traded smiles for tears. You traded freedom for being controlled. You traded a man who treated you like a Queen for a boy that treats you like a possession.
He never yelled - even when it was your fault. He never got angry. When you cried, he stayed. When you laughed, he laughed with you. You shared hopes. You shared dreams.
In the end, you pushed him away. He didn't want to leave, but you pushed him out the door. Now you lay in bed at night wishing you could go back.
You met someone new. Someone who pushes you to your limits. Someone who pushes you down the stairs. Someone who laughs when you cry. Someone who crushes your dreams, and could give a shit less about your hopes.
You want to turn back the clock, but you know it's to late. You believe that you never deserved the the first man. For some reason you chose to stay with the second.
It makes no sense to me, but perhaps it's true what they say. We accept the love we think we deserve.
"No, I'm really not," she began, everything that she had pent up inside starting to break free. "I'm not okay and I've not been okay for a long time, but I thought I could manage, ya know? But I can't. I can't do this anymore. Especially not alone, but I'm to stubborn to accept help from anyone but myself. I walk around preaching about self love, arguing with people who say they are trash or pieces of shit when I feel the same exact way. I'm a hypocrite. I fake the smiles and the laughs and I can pretend all day long. God knows I'd have one hell of an acting career. But the fact is that when I'm alone? I break down. I'll catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and I stop and just sort of stare at myself. Not because I'm self centered, but because I can't believe what I've become. I look in the mirror and I'm sickened. I can't stand myself. Not the sight of me, not my voice, not anything. I see this flicker of light in my eyes sometimes, but its so long gone and I don't know how to get it back. I scream at the walls. I cut my wrists. My thighs. My arms. Anywhere I can fit another scar."
"There's these thoughts in my head won't go away. These dark, twisted thoughts that just beg me to do something irreversibly stupid. I often joke about wanting to die. You know that. Everyone knows that. But it's not that I actually want to die. I love life. I love the sunset and the stars. The ocean and the moon. The way the sun feels on my skin. The sound of music. I love all these things and more. No, it's not that I don't want to live it's that I am scared to live. More than anything. It's strange, I know, but it's the truth. I don't want to die. I don't want to live. I want to cease to exist."
"I constantly live in the past because the present confuses me. I'm scared of the future because I'm a thousand percent certain that I'll find a way to screw it up just like I have everything else."
"I'm confused. I hate emotions, but I don't want to cut them off. I hate the feeling that I get of being numb sometimes. I've tried to cut my emotions off and I can't. It's just that I'm so angry all the time. It used to be sad, and now it's just angry. Is it wrong to say that I miss the Sad? I still get sad, but even when I'm sad there's the anger. Sort of like some weird ratio. Sixty-five percent anger and thirty-five percent sad. I'm so afraid to get attatched, but I do it anyway. In reality, I actually have a really kind heart and I have so much love to give, but I push people that I care about because I always feel like such a burden."
"And I'm just tired, you see. Not from lack of sleep - I'm used to that. Not from working all day. Just the sort of tired that you feel in your bones; in your soul. Tired of fighting a battle that, in all reality, I lost so long ago. Tired of pretending that everything is okay when it's not. Do you know what I would give to just be okay for one freaking day?"
"I just need a moment to breathe. I need a way to keep myself from turning Some thing in to nothing. I could say that I need a way to be the girl that I used to be, but I never even had a chance to get to know myself. I couldn't go back to being that girl now anyway. She wasn't a damaged, emotionally scared piece of shit. After you've been that way for so long it starts to mess with you."
"Do you want to know the real kicker?!" she half screamed, hysterical as she fought back tears. "I HAVE NO REASON TO FEEL LIKE THIS." I have no child hood trauma. My parents never died. I wasn't neglected. I have a place to live. I have food to eat. I have people that love me. I have people that care for me, but it doesn't make what I'm going through any easier. I can't burden them with my problems. They have their own. I'll push them away eventually, I always do. Friends, family, lovers. Doesn't matter. Because I care about them, too. And when I care for someone, I feel that I have to protect them. My biggest threat to them is myself. So yeah, I push them away. No matter how many times it hurts. No, correction. No matter how many times it has hurt. I could name every person who I walked away from. I still lay in bed thinking of them at night. But having so of these things - having all of these people - it doesn't change anything. I wish if did.... But it doesn't."
"I could go on," she said, wiping the hard fought tears from her eyes. "But I don't want to bother you any longer. The answer to your question, simply, is no."
I know that’s something people want me to stop saying, but I can’t.
“It’s hot outside.” I’m sorry.
“My friend hasn’t messaged me back.” I’m sorry.
I’m trying. Goddamit, am I fucking trying.
Trying to be a better daughter. Trying to be a better sister. Trying to be a better friend. Trying to be a better girlfriend. Trying to be a better person in general. But it’s so freaking hard. Most people would tell me that I’m fine the way that I am. That I don’t need to improve. That I’m to kind. That I work hard enough at everything else in life as it is. That I’m selfless. That I need to make time for myself. They’re wrong.
People get mad because I disappear for days on end. I don’t mean to, I swear it. I read the messages, but I forget to respond. I want to go out and do things, but I don’t have the energy. I want to try new things, but I lack the courage. People talk about having the weight of the world on their shoulders. I do not. But I have this feeling. This feeling where it’s getting hard to breathe. Where every decision that I make feels wrong. Where getting out of bed hurts. Where the only reaction that I have to anything is to cry. Not because I’m weak, but because everything has just gotten to be to much.
The sun - to much. Peoples voices around me - to much. Birds chirping - to much. Eating - to much. Anger - to much. Sadness - to much. Happiness - to much.
Happy has gotten to the point where it hurts. What the hell is wrong with me? Happy is supposed to make me feel happy. Happy isn’t supposed to make me feel dreadful. Happy isn’t supposed to be something that I don’t feel like I don’t deserve.
I’m trying. I swear that I’m trying. Trying to be better for you. Trying to be better for everyone.
I know this is the same, worn out, broken down shit that I’ve repeated to you for ages. But I just need you to understand. Understand that when I yell it’s because that I’m past my breaking point. Understand that when I cry it’s because I’ve failed again. Understand that when I’m paying more attention to my phone than the people around me it’s because everything is suddenly to loud. Understand that everything in life just hurts for me anymore. Understand that I don’t want to be this way. Understand that I’m trying to be better. Understand that I am trying to do everything you ask and more. Understand that I play the role of twenty different people on a daily basis in order to make everyone happy. Understand that it feels like I’m drowning. Understand that I can’t breathe anymore. Understand that being at home, locked in the dark, is more comforting than being out with friends. Understand that this isn’t just sad anymore. Understand that this is numb. Understand that I am barely hanging on. Understand that the alcohol isn’t just a new way to relax. Understand that it’s a way to forget. Understand that the marks on my wrist aren’t punishment. Understand that they are a way to feel. Understand that when I ask you for attention, I’m not trying to bother you. Understand that sometimes I just really need to feel you next to me. Understand that when I’m cold, I don’t mean to be.