"Punishment"

Sometimes, I get into this mindset of "if I have to suffer, then so do you" and "if you make me suffer, I'm gonna make you suffer." Essentially, that I have to punish someone. It usually derives from getting hurt by someone, obviously, but at times, I have no reason to start acting like that.

I'm a very sensitive person. I'm extremely sensitive to people's actions and words, and I often take things the wrong way or start over-analyzing. Catastrophe-thoughts often follow.

I think my boyfriend is the one who has experienced that the most. I easily overreact, and can get very hurt and angry even if he didn't do anything wrong. So because he made me suffer, regardless of if he actually did me wrong or if I'm just overreacting, he has to suffer, too. Logical? Not really.

Once again, I'm divided into two parts.

I usually hate fighting with people. A part of me just wants to make things okay and be happy and positive, but then there's that monster that just won't let me. It feels like I'm either going to explode or cave in in my desperate attempt to work against it and control it, 'cause both sides are so incredibly strong. Regardless of how much I try to push that ugly mindset away, I most often can't. I can't even make myself type out a happy smiley on msn. I can barely make myself tell my boyfriend that I love him, even though I really do. I can't make myself write long replies or say anything positive. I can hardly make myself reply at all. It's like this huge wall that I can't knock down. I know that it's no one's fault but my own, but it's really hard.

Also, this "punishment" always backfires. I know that it backfires, and yet I keep doing the same thing. I'm the one who gets hurt, not the person I'm trying to punish. Eventually, I feel so hopeless and desperate that I just start crying. Everyone just thinks I'm in a bad mood, and they can't really pick up on it. It's not just a "bad mood". It's an internal war between a monster and the real me. I always cry and cut and beat myself up over it afterwards and vow to control it better the next time, but I highly doubt that I can.

Picture // Tumblr

Mental Disease

(Mental Disease - Licia Chery)

A side of me wanna be free

A side of me wanna stay a prisoner

A mental disease is destroying myself

I wanna live long, wanna live free, wanna be healthy

But I'm spending my time doing my best to destroy myself

I know what I'm doing is wrong, but the disease is strong

Stronger than my will of going on

And I do my best to destroy myself

I'm destroying myself, but I do admit I may need help

Can somebody get me out of this nightmare?

I'm destroying myself, but I do admit I may need help

Can somebody get me out of this nightmare?

I thought I had the control

I thought I could hold the ridges of my life

But I failed, and I need some help to rebuild myself

I hate this new side of me that never can see the abyss I am putting myself in

This new side of me that likes to destroy myself

I'm destroying myself, but I do admit I may need help

Can somebody get me out of this nightmare?

I'm destroying myself, but I do admit I may need help

Can somebody get me out of this nightmare?

A side of me wanna be free

A side of me wanna stay a prisoner

A mental disease is destroying myself

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"Occasionally I wished I could walk through a picture window and have the sharp broken shards slash me to ribbons, so I could finally look like I felt..."

- Elizabeth Wurtzel, "Prozac Nation"

Here in the darkness I know myself

Picture // Tumblr

"I wanna stay in love with my sorrow, but I want to let it go..."

I'm terrified of dying. I start crying and panic if I think too much about it. Why is it then that I still want to die? The smallest thing can send me into a dark spiral that leads to one single thought; I have to die. There is no other option.

I want to experience the future. I want to turn 18, graduate high school, get a decent education in my chosen field, eventually move in with a partner... and at the same time, the future terrifies me. I can't do anything, I can't live up to anyone's expectations, and I'll never reach my goals. I'll never be able to function like I should in the adult world, and I'm too afraid of everything.

I want to stop self harming. I don't want even more scars that bring out people's bad sides when they see them - prejudice, stares, whispers, pointed fingers, obvious questions... I want to be able to cope in healthier ways, and I sometimes get scared when I realize what I've done to myself. Yet, I don't want to stop. I don't care about the scars, I just want my pain to be visible. Nothing is good enough, nothing is deep enough.

What I need the most is closeness. I just need to feel close to someone, and that someone can look past the facade and the walls I've built. That someone comes up to me and asks me "how are you really?". That someone holds me and takes care of me. That someone sees me. However, I can't deal with it. I usually don't mind talking about my problems, but once someone starts digging and close in on something very painful, I withdraw. I can't cope with having someone too close. They're gonna leave me anyway, and that pain is unbearable.

I'm divided into two parts. Two very contradictory parts. The sick me, and the healthy me.

Picture // Tumblr

The sick me doesn't want to recover. She doesn't want to get better, 'cause then she'll disappear. The sick me is being controlled by a monster that keeps pulling her down. Lucifer, the monster, thinks that she doesn't deserve to get better anyway. She's been tricked into liking everything that the depression and its friends bring along with them, all the while not being able to cope with how painful it is. But this is all she knows, and she's had it like this for so long. She's terrified of being abandoned and forgotten. To be sick allows her to be visible, and Lucifer keeps her ill. The sicker, the better. She wants scars and other visible signs, 'cause it isn't fair that her pain has to be only on the inside.

Then we have the healthy me. She's small, but she's there. She's whispering - desperately - that this is bad. She does her best to make the sick me understand that there are other things in this world and that she doesn't need to cling to Lucifer and the illness to be seen, but Lucifer drowns her out. She wants to show the sick me that there's hope; that things can change. That she'll recover and be able to live a good life. However, Lucifer won't allow it.

It's difficult. The sick part is the biggest one, and she doesn't want anything to do with the real world. It seems too difficult to take care of herself. There's so much responsibility, and the world is a huge and scary place. She's a small child trapped in a growing body. She can't do it on her own, and though the healthy me tried to prevent it, she let a monster take the control and lead the way.

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"I wonder which of those 

brought her to this place,

what monsters-internal or

external-she has fought.

I wonder what drives her

to give in to the goddess

of lust and sharp edges,

open her skin and bleed,

to purposely walk where most

digress, lost in the moment.

I wonder how it feels

to possess such courage."

- Ellen Hopkins, "Impulse"

Keep going

Picture // private

I love that quote. The first time I was committed, I carved it into the wall with a pen. The 2nd time, I was in a secluded room, so I couldn't see it, but the 3rd time, I was given the same room again, and it was still there... the ink was almost gone, but the marks were still there, and you could still clearly see what it said. I wrote over it again to make sure it'd be even clearer.

Tiger?

I've never really gotten that many comments about my scars. A lot of people stare, some people point, but most people don't ask or comment (a few have of course been the exception). Most people know not to ask. Most people, especially when they know me, keep their snide comments and nasty remarks to themselves. But what do you do when you encounter a child?

Small children usually don't understand the concept of self harm. My nieces never ask. I don't know if it's because it scares them, or because they're too shy, or because they don't care, or because my sisters have said anything about it and told them not to. Same with my youngest cousin. But some children do ask. They're curious, and they don't understand why I have all those marks covering my body when no one else they know have them.

There was especially one incident that made an impression on me. I was at my (at the time) best friend's house, and we were baking. Her youngest sister, at the time probably around eight years old, came into the kitchen to look at what we were doing. Then she looked at my arms.

"What are those?" She said.

I was caught off-guard, 'cause I was pretty sure she'd seen before and never asked, and didn't really manage to form a coherent response, not even a simple "I got hurt" or "I was injured" or anything.

My best friend quickly stepped in and told her sister that that was enough and that she should go upstairs, and though she did comply, she first said:

"You look like a tiger!"

And she was shoo'ed upstairs. There was no malice in her voice, just... astonishment? We resumed to doing what we had been doing before, but that comment stuck with me. I still think about it, and not because it pissed me off, but because it surprised me. A zebra? I had heard that one before. Zebra stripes. Almost a cute term. But a tiger? In a way, that made me sound stronger than I felt. Actually, it kind of made me smile.

Even though it was probably mindless from her side, in some way it kind of helped reassure me that there's nothing wrong with having those stripes.

(Left forearm, May/June 2011)
Picture // private

(Right forearm, May/June 2011)
Picture // private

Attempt & gastric lavage

Picture // Tumblr

If anything, this was written to scare myself (and maybe others?) from attempting suicide or overdosing again, not to encourage it. 
Please read with respect.

September 5th, 2011

I can hear the paramedics talking to a doctor just a few feet away from me, but I can't make out the words. It sounds so far away. My head feels like it’s filled with cotton, and I can't see straight. My eyes keep closing involuntarily, and I'm so unbelievable tired.

Now I put my life in the hands of someone else. The people who save lives. I don't have to be in control anymore. It's almost a relief.

A paramedic pats me on the shoulder before saying goodbye to me, also mentioning something about hoping he'll never have to see me like this again. He's picked me up before, and he doesn't want to do it again.

A nurse approaches me and pushes the bed I'm sitting on across the room, and the doctor finally says something I can make sense of. It makes the blood in my veins freeze.

"Gastric lavage."

At first, it feels unreal. Then tears start welling in my eyes, and soon I'm crying. I don't want to. I know what it means - that I'll have to have my stomach pumped. I beg them, my voice shaky. I ask if they can't just let me drink activated charcoal like the previous times, but the doctor shakes his head.

"You've taken too many pills for that, I’m afraid. It's important we get all of them out now."

The nurse from earlier gives me a clean hospital shirt and tells me to change into it, and then leaves. I do as I'm told, although hesitating due to the hatred for my body. I lay down again after putting it on. The doctor prepares things, including the tube. It's thick, and I'm not so sure it's even possible to get it down my throat. I’m shaking. I’m scared.

Two more nurses accompany the doctor. One of them draws blood and leaves, and the other checks my blood pressure. When they're finished, the doctor quickly explains the procedure while the first nurse returns with a cup of water.

They tell me to lie down. The two nurses standing on each side of me now hold my arms down while the doctor tilts my head back and starts guiding the tube down my throat. One nurse gives me the water in small sips. It's given to me so that the tube will go down more easily. I start crying again as it slowly moves down my throat. I gag and cough. It’s like I’m being choked.

I'm uncertain if I throw up or not, but I doubt it - I never do. However, it feels like I'm being violated, and the whole procedure seems to take forever. They repeat it until the liquid that comes up has no more traces of pills. I hardly have any recollection of what happens next. I don’t remember how long it actually takes, and I don’t remember having the tube removed. However, I do know I’m crying the whole time.

Picture // Tumblr

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Every time I've attempted suicide or overdosed, I've told myself the same; this was the last time. I'll never put myself through anything similar again. I'll never hurt anyone around me like that again. I'll never take it this far again, I'll never allow it to go this far again.

However... as time passes by, it's like my mind automatically alters the memories. The pain, the humiliation, the loss of control over my body, the feeling of being paralyzed, the cold, the dizziness, the confusion, having my stomach pumped...

The memories seem so distant. It didn't happen to me. I don't associate the memories with the feelings I know they brought anymore, and after a few months, I've once again convinced myself that it'll be quick and painless, although I know otherwise. Once again, every single thing I do becomes a question of choosing between life and death. Quite literally. It's like my mind and body are plotting against me, preparing to do it again, and I'm not even sure if I want to die.

Picture // WeHeartIt

It terrifies me.