I don’t want any new years

So everywhere you go they say “Happy new year!”, but it’s a lie. I don’t believe them, it won’t be a happy new year. They wish me a happy new year, and I believe them. I believe that they wish me a happy new year, that they wish me all the best. But I don’t believe in it coming. I’m not looking forwards to a new year with new opportunities, to me it just sounds like yet another year with pain and things being hard, and harsh. I don’t want any more years. Not when they’re the way they are.

I’m so lucky, it just doesn’t feel that way. Really, nothing feels like nothing. + Everything feels like nothing.

wish you a happy new year! And I hope you believe in it!

Xo – Marie



the pain and the sickness takes no breaks. 
people is taking turns watching over me like a hawk. it’s ok by me if you don’t give a shit. just don’t give a shit. please. 

Christmas traditions down the drain

Every year at 4pm Christmas Eve (we celebrate christmas on christmas eve, not christmas day) the people in my neighborhood get together in the middle, on the playground, to walk around the christmas tree and sing carols. Every year, no matter how bad I’v been, I’ve always gone out there. No matter how much the anxiety has been bothering me I’ve faced my fears and gone out there, and been together with them in this wonderful tradition. I’ve loved it. Holding hands, walking around the tree, singing carol after carol. Hearing the cracking voices of people who can’t sing, and the seldom voice who carries through it all. Every year, as long as this tradition has existed, I’ve been out there, but not this year.

I’m grateful that I got leave from the hospital to spend the evening with my family. But sitting in my room hearing them singing through the crack in my window, it breaks my heart. That’s my life. But it’s not. Because right now my life is in here, sitting alone on the outside. I’m not part of what used to be my life anymore. Everything has changed. I know walking around the christmas tree is a small thing, but it just says something about my entire life at the moment. I’m not able to be a part of the things and experiences that defined my life. I’m dead already. But I’m not.

I wish you and yours the very best christmas ever! And if it’s not, if it sucks, I wish you one happy moment, where you can smile and be grateful for that one moment. Merry Christmas!

Love, Marie

Making gingerbread house on locked ward

So, I’m sitting in one of the ‘living rooms’ on the unit, where they got internet connection. I’m using it to temporarily downloading music on spotify, so we’ll have some Christmas spirit for the baking. We’re going to make a gingerbread house! I mean … life is really not going my way, but the nurses and the assistants are so nice, you almost start believing in life again. But just almost. So, wish me luck! I’m going to go make my first gingerbread house + I’m gonna try have fun … I mean, what is fun? 

What happened?

Where did life escape me? Because I had that, I had life when I stood panting in the bathroom stall at school freaking out.

I asked myself what happened when I barely finished high school, and most of my days were a drag. When I had to bend over on my way to the store because the anxiety got the best of me and I felt like I had to throw up, just because I had to go to a crowded place and get some milk (or whatever). I asked myself what happened then, when I had to haste out of the classroom in the middle of the teachers tale about chord progressions and G sharp and B flat. I asked myself what happened when most nights I could not sleep and self-harm became a procedure every night, so maybe-maybe I could get some sleep. I asked myself what the fuck happened to my life? because this was not how it had been. How had I ended up like that?

My life in middle school was painful, but I still managed school. I mean it was my way of surviving. Who was I when I didn’t ace every test I did, or when I couldn’t hang out with friends without panicking anymore? So I asked myself what happened. And I could find some of the answers. I saw how I had ended up that way, I saw the sensibility in it. I saw the truth and I understood how it had come to be, and I believed in a way out of it.

Now, two and a half years later, I ask myself the same thing again. What happened? What the fuck happened!? How did I end up with several involuntary hospitalizations within a month? When and where, and how, did it all get so bad I would need stitches several days in a week? When did I stop going outside? What happened when I went from hoping that someday, far in the future it would get better for me, to hoping tomorrow would be the last day I had to breathe? Where did life escape me? Because I had that, I had life when I stood panting in the bathroom stall at school freaking out; I had it when I got my test back barely passing; I had it when counting scars on my arms; I had it while wishing I was dead. But now … What happened?

I search myself for the answer. I try to be as honest as can be, to really dig deep. But I don’t know. I don’t understand what I did wrong. I don’t understand how it is possible to be where I’m at. It happens more often that I get the strangest feeling that we aren’t real. I dissociate and I’m sure people around me are machines, I laugh at the strangest places because this world, this life, cannot possibly be mine, this world cannot possibly be. 

I don’t understand at all. Not how I got here, not what happened that made me get here, and not a single bit of what this, here, is.