I am such a pansy. It's not always a bad thing - I'm not at all keen on horror movies (gross understatement), and I am fine with that. No, what I have a problem with is how scared I am to face up to reality (see example, although I'd like to think I'm not quite that bad.) I hide from facing so many things...
I'm also far too emotional. I have a cry about everything, and look far too much on the negative side rather than the positive side, although, compared to some, I'm absolutely bursting with sunshine...
The point is, I need to toughen up. I thought that I was getting stronger, emotionally, in not falling to pieces in front of my friends. The thing is, all I've been doing is heaping it onto this blog, instead, where I half hope it will remain unread, and half hope that both you who know me in real life and those who are just friends through the blogosphere will listen [read] and sympathise and possibly throw in their two cents, and give me a shoulder to cry on and I hope to god some comfort. Like I said, pansy. I need to stand for myself, and not drape myself all over others weeping and hoping for sympathy and something/someone to lean on.
I am better than that, damnit.
I am stronger than that and I need to start acting that way.
Except it's so easy to forget this shit. I need to put more effort into every damn area of my life.
Friday, May 8, 2009
[Insert relevant song lyrics as title here]
Monday, March 16, 2009
thnks fr th mmrs
Well that was a traumatic phone call.
I don't want to even think about half of that conversation ever again.
I'm so uncomfortable with talking about certain things.
Although I suppose, everyone has their "taboo" topics.
But, shit.
I wasn't doing so great before that conversation and now I'm somewhat worse.
It was just uncomfortable and delved into stuff I do not ever want to talk about, and other stuff that I'm not ready to talk about yet. At least while sober.
And really, with all the shit that's happened every time, I should stop fucking drinking.
But I won't. Why?
I'm stupid.
I don't know why!
I need to attempt some homework. Caffeine dosage upcoming.
Only thing I can say is that I'm so grateful for seeing Justin on Sunday evening at church. That makes everything better. And I can't wait till we hang out.
I'm so sick of having no one to talk to about serious shit. I'm so sick of people not letting me know what I'm doing is stupid, in a nice way where I'll actually take it on board. I'm really, really over being stuck with myself constantly and having to carry this stuff around.
I hate the flashbacks of memory. Any memory. Every memory. And then especially those memories. I want to remove them. Anyone know if there's a delete button?
I may even start almost completely over. I don't want to keep remembering what I did, with this different, normal perspective. How I usually look at the world. I want to forget.
I'd forget you, and you, and you and you and you, and that night, and that night, and that time;
I'd definitely forget that. Was it my fault, or yours? A bit of both, I'd say. I wish I could say it was yours entirely. I really do. I lost much of my slowly building self respect there. And I wish that someone could say it wasn't my fault and that such a statement would be true. I wish that I could take it back take it back back back.
I hatehatehate that I did that. I hate how I'll never have a second chance. Nothing can change that.
(Although, I'll admit, if it would have fixed things with my friends in some crazy way, I'd do the same thing again. A thousand times over, not that it's quite possible. But as close as I could get.)
And as for you, well, I think I'd keep those memories. I don't want to forget that, forget you, or what you meant; or how special that was. I wouldn't forget you either, or you. Or you. I'd keep those memories, bittersweet as they are except for those with the last one of you.
Everything else, I think I would forget.
I've never been so full of regrets.
UPDATE (1:43AM) - And if I had the energy or the desire to try to protect myself, I'd be curled in a ball with my arms around my head. But how does one fight when the enemy is already inside?
The more I try to stop it, the faster the images come, flashes here and gone; in a cycle that can't stop, won't stop. And each time it's worse.
And I'd give myself to you in any way possible so that I exist no longer as my own self, but rather something for someone else. How do I explain that concept? If I was no longer a physical being, but rather, just a presence, something like a spirit who just filled the gaps in those who needed it and who I once loved; that would be easier. The responsibility of living sometimes feels like too much (that's now).
I don't want to be freefalling, I'd rather be drifting, emotionless.
I'll put my life on hold permanently; do you see it up on that shelf? Till I'm more faded than the words that I once wrote; I'll love you always, forever.
I'm barely aware of what I'm saying, can you tell?
Living takes an effort that sometimes I can't find, and I'm scrawling down these senseless words hoping that somehow I'll find my mind.
Wow, that rhymed.
EDIT (2.16AM): All I want right now is a coffee I can drown my thoughts in.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
"The reason is you"
Postscript for my earlier ramblings today.
Quite simply, my sister is my reason as to why I won't cut. I will not allow myself to. If not for my sake, for hers.
She is my only, younger sister; and while she does not self-harm, she struggles with other things. How can I plead with her to refrain when I put forth such a bad example, whether she knows it or not?
When I long for her to not do this terrible thing, knowing that others feel the same way about me, how can that be justified, how can I expect her to listen? And even if she does, how I can I live with such double standards?
No. I am stronger than this. And I am definitely stronger for her. I cannot be selfish about this. I will not.
Life is worth more than this. My life is worth more than this. I'm going to bend, but I am not going to break.
This IS war.
And I'll be damned if I let you win.
"I will not let it in, I will not succumb to your sweetness. I will not be betrayed by the kiss of a blade by the liquid that gives to take and I, I will not swallow those lies that sit on my plate. Brake. Shatter. Collide and fall."
Thank you for bearing through my time of weakness. But there is hope. It's here and it's real, and this is worth it. Life isn't easy. But we are stronger than we think, and we have each other. We have hope. And "hope is not a myth".
"But, you see, I'd kick the bucket
sixty times before I'd kick the habit."
I was all set. I had my blog post planned out, title and everything. "Back in the game". And the body would simply be a picture. The cleaned up post-shot, not the one taken as blood streamed, unchecked. Startlingly, vibrantly red, forming lines that merged into one another and flowed, something unspeakably, inexplicably beautiful and peaceful in its deliberate, premeditated violence.
I had the area in mind. It would be simple and clean, just one. Or option two; a crazy release, but carefully controlled. But preferably the first option, just one cut, down the back of my leg. Inconspicuous. Excuse - Scraped against a tree.
I don't know what triggered it today. It was worse for that, and to be honest, it holds me in its grip as I write.
The other day, in Biology, I got cravings. But that was understandable, you know? We were doing a practical that involved slicing up liver of some animal. I was the one cutting it up. The scalpel blade and leftover headache from the morning, as well as feelings of dizziness, lead to my high susceptibility to cravings. Holding that blade, imagining it all clearly. I had to leave for a few minutes to clear my head.
Here, there was nothing. No trigger. Today is my mum's birthday and all that caused me to determine is to make dead sure she didn't find out. That wasn't enough to stop me. Haven't I caused her enough pain?
It was a wild tumble of emotions; missing my best friends, fond remembrances of times with them, upset at how much other people's opinions influenced my actions, at how my "brother (who isn't by blood but we count each other as siblings" obviously disapproves of my being with Chris; terrified that Chris will decide to join the army full time within a few weeks, and not next year, and if full time, would be gone for 18 months; and missing everyone I hadn't spent much time with lately. Tired and unable to stand against the turbulence of all this, I just wanted to do it. I half tried to believe "just once", just one more; because the last time wasn't much of a send off, although the depth of the scar would beg to differ. It would be nice to do it properly, end that part of my life well.
It was a lie, I knew that. If I did it "this once", it would be my chance to return to it. And I had been nine months and two days (longer than "pregnant time"). At the time though, it didn't matter much.
The faster we're falling,
We're stopping and stalling.
We're running in circles again...
Cause I'm in too deep, and I'm trying to keep,
Up above in my head, instead of going under."
I'm okay and I can make this, but only if I want. And sometimes I just want to cut.
And,
sometimes it wouldn't feel like giving in. It would feel like satisfaction. Like what I want. "And you might say it's self-indulgent
And you might say it's self-destructive
But, you see, it's more productive
Than if i were to be happy"
It's a lie, I know. It's the need and the addiction clothed in something else, disguised as something better. Not done to stop the other pain, to release. But underneath the reasons are still there, still the same.
I'm clinging to this;
"I am not a pretty picture.
I am not a project or something for you to fix. I am a beautiful mistake, I am a mess, I am tragedy I am fairytales. I am a story, as are you, and with every line across my wrist I was screaming and with every tear that I shed I am praying for me and you and "them" and us. We are not alone we are in this together and I am on my face tonight. And darkness screams behind the door, it is begging, fighting to get in.
THIS IS WAR.
And I will not let it in, I will not sucuumb to your sweetness. I will not be betrayed by the kiss of a blade by the liquid that gives to take and I, I will not swallow those lies that sit on my plate. Brake. Shatter. Collide and fall. Pretty poison. I used to think I should come with a warning lable, I thought I destroyed everything that I touched and now, now I see, now I know it was not me it was the Hole it was the monster that came in and wrecked everything I know...and love...and love and hope would not let me go. And love and hope grew arms to reach me when I was running and wrap me snug in a hug that my heart had longed for oh so long. And love and hope in stars and hearts on my back on my arms and in my heart as mine, for me to give to you and that is what the pain was for. And that was worth it all, and more."
but I'm inclined to let go and jump back into the abyss. And do so gladly. Not falling, screaming, hating myself for this weak lapse. But with delight, like meeting an old friend again after a long time apart.
Bring me to my senses.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
I still struggle with the urge to hurt myself. It hasn't come on particularly strong in ages, which I am grateful for, but the other day I was a bit disturbed when the thought passed through my mind that I should, for no conceivable reason apart from that I wanted to.
[WARNING: this is a description of my past self harm and quite likely highly disturbing for a lot of you]
I've mentioned this before, I do get some sort of perverse pleasure from it, and am in some strange way slightly gratified by the spilling of my own blood. But then sometimes I want to do it for the sheer violence, to be able to take out my frustration and confusion and anger on something, to hack and destroy. Do you know what a sausage looks like when it has been overcooked and the skin spits, with the inside being peeled towards the outside, ripped and exposed? Sometimes I want to grab a blade and do that to myself.
And now I sound like a psychopath.
But truth be told, I could never do that anyway.
I could never strike in violence and without premeditation; a lot of the time I had to wait till the family were safely in bed before I could unleash my hurt, and as such, I planned everything. I would imagine where I would cut, and I would do it slowly, drawing out the pain, and then reworking it, going over it to make the cut deeper, the pain worse, the blood flow stronger. Of course, there were times where I would slash; some of the faint scars on my stomach are from that, but the brief sting of that was never enough for me.
The times of panic were most scary, I never thought I'd bleed to death, but I was scared that it would be bad enough that my parents would have to know, or that I would pass out, or something. And their finding out was what I dreaded most.
Things like this never really leave you, I think. They stay with you and resurface when you are not on guard. I don't want to give in but sometimes it's tempting. I can't explain the adrenalin rush it brings.
Satisfaction? Not so much. I would try to convince myself that it did something, but for me it grew to be less about the pain. I found the satisfaction in the blood pouring from me, flowing, sticky, staining; faster than I could mop it up. I loved that and I can't tell you why, but it made me feel better. It felt uncontrolled and somewhat wild, out of my hands. I found it fascinating, and it bore no room for other thought in my mind.
A distraction of the best kind.
The pain was part of it too, the pain that was better than feeling the hurt inside me, the harsh words or my own loneliness; that brewed and swelled and threatened to explode, but, vengefully, viciously, never did. This was my release.
There are approximately three reasons why self harm occurs, if you look at the research. They are true. To have a sense of control, as a cry for help, a way of expressing internal pain, and one other I forget. A cry for help and expressing internal pain are usually intertwined. I identify with all of these reasons.
The thing is, if you know others who self harm, it can become a competition; as to who can do the worst damage. When you see that another has done so much worse, you feel pressured because i seems like your pain is less than theirs, but it's as bad; this pain is so terrible. And so you feel like you need to go further, to prove this. It's largely subconscious, this; underlying.
And sometimes, inexplicably, I want back in.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
"Well, she's not bleeding on the ballroom floor..."
"...just for the attention,
'Cause that's just ridiculous..."
For those of you who don't know, I saw a counsellor a few times after my overdose on painkillers. Maybe four, maybe five. And also for those of you who don't know, I was not trying to kill myself. But, I liked this counsellor. I felt guilty for having to see her, when it cost my parents so much. But they wanted me to get better. And I wanted to get better. And hopefully even fix things amongst our family somewhat. However, most of you will know, as well as I, that seeing a counsellor is not something you do just a couple of times. If you want a quick fix, it's better to go in for drugs, or hypnotherapy, or crazy altering-chemicals-in-your-body type stuff. If you want to see a counsellor and work through problems, it is a long term thing. It takes time, and patience. Four or five visits to a counsellor is just the start.
I'm not crazy and I'm not suicidal; I don't even necessarily have depression, but yes, I have seen a counsellor. And, it wasn't actually a waste of time. It was helpful. Not every counsellor will be helpful to you personally, and different people "click" better with others. But that's all rather irrelevant. I'm just trying to do my bit to beat down the stigma our society associates with counsellors etc. But more on that another time.
Sometimes, I don't feel up to taking that responsibility that seeing a counsellor engenders. It means having to actually take action, to stop relying on others. Because you have to put in effort.
And sometimes, I don't feel like I have that much within me. I don't think I can keep going. It feels too hard and I want to give up. When, like me, you are desperate to know that you are loved, you will sometimes go to shocking lengths to be assured of this. It didn't begin as this, but the ways in which I hurt myself physically ended up serving another cause, when those around me found out, seeing how they were upset told me that they cared. I already knew they cared about me. They expressed it enough. But for me, that wasn't quite enough.
When I say that my friends "found out", I mean, generally, that I would tell them. Or I would drop hints or not quite hide what I had done. I hated myself for it, for making them upset. It was yet another thing to prove I was a terrible person; that I would let them know. More ammunition to use against myself. I didn't want to be attention seeking, but honestly, that is what I was doing, in that aspect of my self harm, at least. I suppose you could say I was slightly manipulative as well. But I didn't have much control over it. Each time I determined that no one would know, and almost each time, I would let at least one person know. Sometimes not for weeks, months even. But I would eventually fold.
I don't suppose I could have hidden the guilt I felt for betraying them, which is what I did every time I self harmed, even if I had truly tried. I let myself give in and tell them because secretly, that was what a large part of me wanted. Even when I didn't realise it.
Anyway, it is this need to be assured of others' love for me that led me to being heavily reliant on them. I needed their reaction to my actions as motivation to stop self harming, I needed them to help distract me when I wanted to self harm but was trying not to. I used my friends as a crutch (no one please think of the other crutch! >.<) and let myself go on feeling sorry for myself. That's the truth.
Sometimes it feels too hopeless, too hard to go on. But I know I am stronger than I think. It is up to me to keep going, not to give in as I did when trying not to tell my friends about my self harm. Because if I had wanted, I could have not told them. And if I had truly wanted, I could have stopped myself from self harming, each time. But I was scared to take responsibility, because that meant that things could be my fault. I hate being wrong. It's not that I feel I am better than others, rather, that I want to please everyone, and if I make a mistake, I am letting others down. It's why I hate team sport so much, because I was always the one who would let everyone down (apart from in soccer, I love that game C:).
In those respects, I was (and still am, in other ways) a little child. I still sometimes want to be the vulnerable one who will be in a position where (hopefully) others will protect her, and she can know by this that they care, and she matters. But I am learning to tell myself just how ridiculous that is, and do some standing up for myself.
There are the times I feel so weak and I want to hand over my problems to someone else and tell them to fix them, but that is not possible, and if I'm honest, I know I can hold out, even if it won't be easy. It is up to me whether I stand firm or break.
With all of this, I sometimes wished I would just be given anti-depressants or something. Not that I'm saying they are the easy way out; sometimes they are necessary. But I'm not keen on drugs and things that alter the body's functions and I knew I could do it otherwise, although it would be harder, longer, and more frustrating. So I was glad to be seeing a counsellor. They do help, but only if you let them, if you take on board what they say and apply it. And I was ready for that. I was ready to move forward, no matter how hard it was. And sort out stuff that I hadn't been able to sort out in my own mind. We all know the saying about not seeing the wood for the trees. A distanced person could lend a valuable perspective and I wanted that.
I had thought about counselling long before, but I couldn't bring myself to ask my parents about it. That would involve first convincing them I had things I needed to work through, and then that it should be done professionally, etc. So I was, in a way, grateful at the chance my overdose gave me. I thought that even this stupid thing I had done could be the very thing that helped me. I had to have follow up counselling. I had to confront things, I couldn't avoid it, and I didn't even have to bring it up personally!
I hadn't seen my counsellor since before Christmas as she was going away on holidays, and said just to make an appointment when she got back, whenever. Well, she's been back for a long time. I wanted to see her again, but Mum didn't bring it up, and I was dead against bringing it up myself. I'm not good at broaching certain (most) remotely sensitive subjects with my parents, particularly my mother, and I really didn't want to do this. She had made it clear she thought I was better. That I only "caused all this trouble during school" and she thought that when school started again, "her and Dad would have to endure the nightmare again". "You've put us through hell... you've caused us so much heartache... you've caused your dad so much stress that with his high cholestrol he could have a heart attack... (or, rather more bluntly) you'll kill your father..." And so it goes. My mother is not the most... er, understanding or tactful soul... Yet, while I am an absolute sucker for guilt trips (I felt guilty for eating or attacking in any other way my friend in some Wii game we were playing at his house, even though it was part of what my character had to do in order to beat him - Super Smashed Bros Brawl, if you were wondering), I refuse to let my mum's work. Of course, some still slip in past my barriers.
I didn't exactly want to explain to my mother that no, not everything was alright, and no, it had a grand total of nothing to do with school vs. holidays, but it was an ongoing thing with many issues and this matter with my friends was only a very small part of it. I made half hearted attempts to counter her nightmare statements by saying "it's not anything to do with school", and her "you seem just fine now that it's the holidays" with "how would you know"s, but I would back out and run for the hills the moment she demanded what exactly I meant.
I finally asked her if she could make a counsellor's appointment, and she was very reluctant. I was a bit stunned as she asked me how many more times I could go see the counsellor. I know it's expensive but there is absolutely no point in going a few times, it is an ongoing process! She doesn't see anything really wrong with me, which also contributes to it, but I know that I need this. I can get by without it, but to truly fix things, it would be of great help. And I love the chance to have someone get to know so much about me; practically everything, and accept it. I've realised that it is something I long for, because it would be a true mark that I am worth it, that I am an okay person; valuable, and all that.
This was over two weeks ago, and I asked her yesterday if she had made an appointment because in the end she said something which sounded like a grudging acquiescence, and she told me that she hadn't.
I don't want to say this, I don't want to feel this; but I'm disappointed and it feels like a betrayal on my mother's part. She should want me to get better. I know it is just because she can't tell anything is wrong, if I was physically sick her and Dad would spend everything they had to help me become well; but this is different and it's not as simple or as obvious as physical illness. Not that I'd say I'm mentally unwell, but still.
Sighh.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
I meant to post this last night (or rather, this morning, around the 6-ish mark), but I was on my dad's mobile and it was slow and I was tired and still not all that sober...
I did sneak out to hang out with two of my friends who have now finished school, but who I originally knew from Staberfoyle. So we played a couple of drinking games and hey, Mark has an air conditioner which was a more attractive prospect than anything, in this crazy 40 degree weather we've been having. (It's been in the high 40's for the last few days and is likely to stay in the 40's till next Sunday /dies [that's Celsius])
Anyway, in the past I may have mentioned that I can actually keep my balance pretty well while inebriated. Forget that. I was very, very wrong. Not that I was all that much more uncoordinated than when sober, but still; it was worse. Definitely, noticeably worse.
I still was capable of climbing over a fence ;)
I'd post more but I don't feel comfortable sharing certain things with those of you I know IRL, particularly via a blog. Haha. But no, Car Crash Hearts, I did not hook up with Nick. ;P
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
I really need to get the hang of this blogging thing
I wouldn't say I'm doing toooo badly, considering my 26 followers (and 15 on my other blog!), however there is vast room for improvement. My posts are either too short, too long, without enough background information, whiny, sad, repetitive, confused... And to top it off, it's the 7th of January, and I've only posted three times thus far this month!? Usually it's more along the lines of three times a day...
Admittedly I have been away in Melbourne, and out as well a lot, but what I have posted lately anyway has been bland, uninteresting or merely quotes or stories from others... Poor form, poor form.
So, for the new year, I need a new name. For my blog. For the characters in my life on this blog ^_^. And to replace Tovoia ja Elaman!! >.< Something that will represent who I am, without revealing my identity. Then I can go back and alter all posts with his name in it, with anyone else's who could expose who I am lol. Although, reading my posts, after a while you could guess anyway, if you do know me.
I want your help for this, I have requested this before but this time I want ideas! So please, rack your brains and come up with something as I thus far have been unable to do...
I just sent a long email to Michael trying to explain just what my former best friend means to me and what our friendship was like, why I find it so hard to let go.
[Just an aside, my iTunes won't open /grits teeth nervously, stabs keyboard {My iTunes is precious to me, I have it at well over 4000 songs, due to careful nurturing and much Limewire and Torrent downloading; and as for my play counts... /holds protectively]
You know what? This iTunes matter is remotely urgent (of course that makes sense), and I think I'm going to have to restart. But no! I am downloading my iTunes update so I can't even do that for another 30 or so minutes... Sigh. [My somewhat excessive downloading may or may not have lowered our broadband connection to dial up speed... again.]
I just recalled that I have Maths tuition homework I really should be doing rather than blogging. But it has been a long time since I have truly posted, I can't stop myself now... So I'll switch to Windows Media Player temporarily to continue listening to Bloodhound Gang (Ain't My Job on repeat, specifically; it amuses me), and console myself in regards to lost play counts with the thought that at least it will scrobble to Last.fm... And continue to ramble until Kathleen gets here.
Really, rambling is what I do best. I could write / talk for hours on a completely nonsensical topic and not run out of words. Which is a little unfortunate for any readers/listeners. Ah well.
I finally got my hair cut on the 30th, I like it (: It's all choppy from the layers, just past my shoulders. I have black hair for those of you who don't know, and although I do now have to straighten it every day, it looks good ^_^ I might put a picture up when I have a good one, albeit temporarily. I also sometimes add a bright blue hair extension to my hair, that you can see under my layers, I won't try to explain as you may get a terrifying image in your minds, but again, a picture can assist. Temporarily.
Got my Learner's license today; the actual card. I don't look aaas bad as I thought I would, considering I thought the picture had already been taken and started to move, and my hair's kinda weird looking there (pre-haircut).
So, anyway, back to my email to Michael. Trying to describe my friend, I find myself lost in memories of him, of us. Can I ever really explain to anyone else what he was like, everything necessary to have a full idea of him? Would anyone ever be able to see him in the same way I do? I wanted to portray everything that could explain who he is, and what our friendship was.
He started talking to me now, and we had a brief conversation about Does It Offend You, Yeah? (band). Now, as it seems doomed to always be, our conversation is dead. I can't think of anything to say. Does he even want us to be as good friends as we were before? That is what I want to know more than anything, apart from "did / does he miss me at all???"
My self esteem is still better than ever before, to stop cutting myself, for me (!), what an incredible thing. I am still amazed at the thought of it, and yet, I did it, and continue to do so. It is hard. I come very close to breaking sometimes. But I'm still doing it. I'm pretty proud of myself for that. /embarrassed smile
But. Of course there was a 'but' coming. ;P With three of my best friends gone from my life, that leaves me with a lot of questions. I have already asked some of you these, but for the rest of you, "Did you miss me, at all??? Was it that easy to remove me from your lives, to replace me with each other, with others?? Am I that replaceable, that unneeded, that unnecessary??? Do you not even want me? Am I that expendable?" My head tells me no, even my heart kinda tells me no, but there's still that doubt. I feel like a child who is hurt and confused and yeah...
Anyway, Kathleen is here.
Ramblings can continue later (:
Monday, December 1, 2008
shoot me
i want out
so bored
i'm dying
my eyes are like filled with tears from the too much in front of screen thing
asdhflidjglkdfjiglkdfjgklf
this isn't just boredom
this is me not wanting to be here because i'm back in one of those stages where i get hell emo fairly often and absolutely go psycho over the smallest argument and revert to the actions and thoughts of a three year old chucking a tantrum
ashfkjgfdsklfdglkdfgf
killself
i need people
Thursday, November 13, 2008
tonight [updated]
I am closer than before to fixing things with Bec and Sach, and I have never in all this time wanted more to absolutely rip my arms to shreds. Hah I have had different ways of wanting to cut, or places, but this, so badly, just to tear up my entire forearms, both of them, like i have ripped up a piece of cloth, so viciously and roughly. The most appropriate word that comes to mind is mauling. The urges come suddenly.
Hah that would be appropriate, spreading the love Toivoa, then coming home and cutting yourself.
I'm SO CLOSE to fixing this.
And so close to losing this game of self preservation.
"A stitch away from making it and a scar away from falling apart."
Or I suppose I could carve Love into my arm hahhhhh
Like I was gonna write their names, / first letter of their names. haha but i realised how creepy and stalker like. ehh.
I miss Jake.
oh p.s. don't worry, i won't do anything
in addition coz i don't want to keep adding random paragraph long blogs every half an hour or so like, last night or whatever. anyhow. i just want to say. i absolutely hate. how. sacha said, in the latest thing of this email. that I seem fine without them. !!! Obviously I do a better job of covering up around them then I thought. I mean, I try to act normally, but for the most part, I tend to completely forget what I'm saying / doing when they are around, my mind loses any coherency. And I think about them a million times a day, I don't sleep because I miss them too much and they are in all my dreams >=| I just wish they knew how much I actually do miss them and need them and am not just "fine" without them. But like, I can't tell them. I don't want to do that, it comes across insincere and like I'm looking to make them feel bad and guilt them back into being friends. And I don't want that. But I do wish they knew how much I am not fine without them... they should know they mean more to me than that..
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Cravings.
And I think, I'm just a little addicted to you...
No, I'm not talking about Jake, although I suppose I quite easily could be.
I have something of an anger problem. It tends to stay directed at members of my family so none of you would ever see it. None of you would ever see the nearly uncontrollable rage I sometimes get into. Where I literally have next to no control of myself and I am consumed by anger. I'm glad I can't remember it properly afterwards, I am sure the feeling is a horrible one. I remember what happened, but the way I was feeling is fuzzy.
Not at Deborah anymore. We get along really well these days. But my relationship with my dad is deteriorating. And also before, when we got into fights, I was always fairly calm but on the rare occasions when my dad made me angry, I have tried to bite him and hit him etc. Mum and I used to fight a lot, this is from year 7 onwards, and I'd get angry at her all the time, but not as fiercely as the rare occasions with Dad. I'd get like this with mum sometimes too, but ehh still very very rarely.
Practically the only control I have over myself then is stopping myself from swearing, and that is only just. I usually have to say it under my breath, or something. Or scream something else that tends to be completely incoherent.
Mmm anyway so I was up till 4 30 the other night attempting to download Spirited Away onto the computer. My parents realised I was still up and came in and were yelling at me, but like, in whispers. Because they know how little I've been sleeping, but I won't tell them why. So they keep going on about how it's coz I'm not exercising enough.
Anyhow, so this was all like rahhhhhhhhhh. And I was so angry coz Dad switched off the computer and downloading was taking ages and it had just reached about 75%. So I was hell dev'd aha.
But they were ranting and I lost it. Mum was saying how I was going back to the stage I was before the holidays, meaning when I'd overdosed, and I was screaming "No, I'm not, I'm fine except for what you make wrong" because I am fine as I can get. And so she was like "then why are you sleeping so little, you don't eat right, you don't sleep right, you are killing yourself!" My response, "no I'm not I AM FINE", and dad was saying this stuff too and then mum was saying that I was stressing them both out and not letting them sleep and that i was ruining our whole family
And I seriously have been okay, but it's her saying stuff like that that fucks me up, I can't stand people telling me how I think, mum and dad both tend to do that, and I'm like no, you've got me all wrong, I am NOT like that. And her essentially telling me that I'm messed up, at that stage it makes me incredibly upset.
Ehhhh anyway. So I got real angry. I was about to hit my mum in the face with my drink bottle but I restrained myself enough to hit her as light as possible so it couldn't really hurt like on her arm. Because if I didn't do something I would have exploded. And I didn't want to do even that >=(
Mmm so anyway. Afterwards. I craved, so badly, to cut. (You may want to stop reading. Specifically you Kate >.<) Because, it is comforting. It wasn't even for the pain that I wanted it. The sheer violence of it, but calm; disguised violence. The blood. It is amazingly pretty. I have something of a fascination with my blood. And like, those gothic pictures? With the people and sometimes there is blood, it is gorgeous. >.< It's just, blood is so amazing. It is the thing that gives us life, well one of the things. And watching it drip, it's special. Eeeep now I sound psycho. This I really should keep just for my diary.
But I just still had that rage, simmered down and bottled but not quite subsided yet. Although I was very calm, after that. Not in that cold white way that rage sometimes goes to. Just calm. Okay. And I could picture getting a blade, holding it to my arm, pressing it, feeling the slight pressure. Then going deeper. I barely cut like that. Cutting slow was always the hardest. And to keep going. It takes a lot of nerve, or a lot of pain or being upset, or anger. But it's better. And to watch the blood slowly well up in beads, staying there for a point along a fine red line, until the surface tension breaks and it spills out, coursing in rivers along my skin. >.<
It slightly, vaguely worries me that I would take out my anger on myself. Or want to. I haven't. And I don't plan on it. But it's beyond hurting myself. It's good. It's addictive. Sometimes I want to do it merely for the sake of the blood. However, usually, I go with the quick strokes as fast as possible, it's easier. ohmygod I am so sick in the head lol. So now you know one of the most fucked up things about me. I have very dark blood by the way. And my blood is an amazing colour ^_^ I love it. It's dark and deep and rich maroon, a royal shade of red...
Blood from your arms and legs is thinner, more watery. Bleeds a lot. Stomach is rather more disappointing, the blood is thicker and does not flow...
Agh. Okay. Biology.
I should have kept that to myself.
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