The black dog walks ever by my side. It is omnipresent. The drugs do not work. I am losing hope.
Every day my experiences and feelings are dismissed.
Everyday the will to live is drawn from me with gasping breath.
How much do I owe my progenitors? Does the debt diminish if I detail the abuses? Does kicking, hitting and belittling decrease my debt, even just a little bit?
I want to cut so badly.
I want to scream and flay the world, that my pain is real. I bleed inside. But that is another person. A person who was not beaten into submission.
I am thirty years old and I still cringe at her tone.
My mother is an abuser.
My father never stopped her.
My mother’s friend’s son is also depressed. But he tried to commit suicide so clearly he’s way more depressed than me. /sarcasm
My family thinks like this. My state of mind is written off as an temporary situation. I can’t win. I just cannot explain to them how serious this is. If I show my feelings, I get told to cheer up. If I fake being ok, in their minds it is proof that my illness is no big deal. My mother has seen me with blood running down my arms after I got cut-happy with a razor, but it hasn’t changed her ability to see me or what I’m going through.
I’m not trying to play the depression olympics with tis other person. I cannot measure levels of depression. He was always a bit of a manchild before his breakdown and I cannot imagine that he is coping well.
I don’t want to attempt suicide to make them see. I want to live (more or less). My desire for self-harm is increasing again. I want to carve my skin into pretty lines of blood with a sharp blade. I have managed to avoid buying the razor but my resolve is weakening.
I know that I’m generally a good patient. I take my meds and I am trying to get better.
I am in hell. Caught between the fake happy and the intense desire to shred my arms to pieces and see the red blood flow. Those closest to me do not hear my cries for help. They minimise and deny and I’m lost.
I want to slice my wrists open until blood is flowing down my arms, changing the grey of my life to red, staining the sheets.
But I don’t because it would cause too many questions.
There must be some kinda way out of here. Out of the grey, dead feeling of my brain. Out of the cold of the unfeeling place.
I exist but I do not live. I am grey.
I hate this life.
I used to be alive.
I hurt myself today
Trigger warning: cutting and blood
I’ve grown to like the slight pain when I run my fingers over the cuts.
I’m not hiding them. I can’t. It’s way too hot for long sleeves and I kinda want someone to notice.
Is it too much to ask one’s friends to care? I mean in RL. In bloglandia Ihave you all. Thanks xxx
Could I be any more pathetic? I want my friends to notice that I’m hurting myself. What a stereotype? I hear that most cutters don’t want people to know. Am I just desperately seeking attention with my razorblade antics?
It is so much easy to cut with a razor blade than a scissors. The razor is clean and makes patterns in my skin.
The thing about cutting is that while the moment is calming, the aftermath is annoying, messy and painful.
Still cannot sleep. Took half an ambien and still couldn’t sleep.
I gave up smoking and still can’t sleep.
Whiskey, Foxtrot, Tango
I just cut myself.
It’s tiny and barely bleeds.
It’s the first time.
I feel totally out of control.