This loneliness knows no comfort

Shouldn’t the feeling of despair be less painful since it’s been here so many times before? Shouldn’t we have become acquainted and familiar and close by now and shouldn’t that make it easier? No, I swear: despair is what it always is and always will be: bottomless dread and pain. There’s no such thing as being used to it. I mean, yeah! It’s been here a thousand times before but it’s still as painful as the first time. This loneliness doesn’t get more bearable just because I know it.

I hate that! I absolutely hate that. Shouldn’t there be comfort in knowing what you’re up against? Shouldn’t there be relief in the familiarity, and support in the fact that you’ve been here before? No! The despair is as terrible as ever.

 I wonder if there will ever be a time where my life is free from this kind of suffering. I wonder if I’ll have weeks were I actually believe my life exists with a future. I wonder if I can ever forget to think about my death. I wonder if I’ll ever truly live.


Application for voluntary death

Suppose there was a thing like that, what would the criteria be? Who would process the application forms? What would their day be like? “Hello honey! Oh, nothing out of the ordinary, I approved 14 inquiries, and some of them darling were quite troubling, if I may say so. Luckily most of them applied for sudden death, so they don’t need to suffer knowing when it’ll happen. Actually we’re in contact with a new hit man, he seems pretty darn funny! I hope I’ll get to work with him planning a few of the terminations!” …

I objectively want to die

I’ve thought about it long and hard. For many years, actually. I see that my decision has been influenced by my subjectivity to the matter, of course it has! But now, I think I have come to the point where I can make an objective choice. Or, I don’t just think, I know. I am making an objective choice, to die. It’s based on facts not feelings. 

  • My life is not worth living, because I have no real feelings, they are all some sort of bullshit: when I’m feeling happy, I don’t feel happy, I think and know happy. When I love someone, I don’t feel love towards them, I think it. 
  • I am a narcissistic psychopath (this doesn’t mean that every narcissistic psychopath should die, or that they can’t have a good life, it just means that I can’t have a good life as a narcissistic psychopath): the meaning in life for me lies in making a difference, and caring about others, as I cannot feel for others, that only leaves me with making a difference, but I cannot make a difference when the only thing I’m occupied with is me, myself and I. 
  • I am ugly (OK, I’m gonna be real honest, I don’t know where that came from, but it stays, it sounds objective to me that that should be a fact for me to die).
  • I have no value.
  • The people I’m surrounded by in my everyday life will be better off without me: my therapist will have room for a new patient, that will benefit both my therapist and the new patient; my family will have one less gift to get for Christmas; my colleagues don’t have to look at me during their work-day and they’ll have more work to do, this will make them feel more at peace and like they have more of a purpose; etc. etc. 

So, as you can see, this choice is not driven by subjective feelings, and whims. It’s thought-through and logical, reasonable, and objective. 

I’ve got 3,5 outta 10 nails left on my feet.

I think something’s wrong with me. Actually I know something’s wrong with me, but I don’t know what. It hurts so bad. I am so stupid. Why do we keep doing these things over and over again? Why do we not remember the pain, and the shame this brings? Even the nail beds! For heavens sake!? I look like a fucking penguin when I walk. The throbbing in my toes will probably keep me up tonight, and the fucker inside reminds me that that is why I had to do it: so I wouldn’t sleep and so I’d walk around never forgetting the pain. You’re to. Never. Forget. The. Pain.

Fellow self-harmers, why do we do this to ourselves? Even when we know the relief won’t come, and even when we know that the abuser inside will never be satisfied. We say “I’m never doing that again”, but then we do. Why? Why am I so incredibly stuuuuuuupid.


For those of you who has left a comment: I love every comment I get. I read it and appreciate it and reread it. I will get back to you. But I’m trying to be in a right mind when I do, but I will answer it, that’s a promise you can count on. As long as I’m not hit by a meteor. In the meantime I am reading them and appreciating them, over and over. Cause they and you are valuable to me.

Where’s my happy ending. I can’t wait any longer.

I wanna jump. Every day I wanna jump. I lie here in my bed and I feel isolated, apart. Apart from everyone and everything that I know. I finally lie here at end of a day where my only consolation has been the fact that I get to lie down at the end of it. But now as I’m lying here, there is no consolation, there is no relief. And there is nowhere to turn. I am so tired. I am so sad. I feel so alone in the world. Apart. Isolated. Will I ever want to live? I lie here and I crave an escape. I need to be someone else for a while. I need to take a step away from my life. I’m praying to all the gods I don’t believe in. I would do anything to make it stop. And truth be told I am doing everything I can. I don’t think it’s just wanting not to suffer anymore or not wanting to live. Tonight I’m beyond.

I want to die.

Standing on a cliff is not as glamorous as you’d think, step back you fool

Don’t ever try to kill yourself. It’s just not one of those things you put on your bucket list you know. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be. It’s not relief and freedom. It’s not a bright-bright light at the end of the tunnel. It’s not easy. It’s not easy. And it definitely isn’t pretty. Don’t try it out, don’t let yourself go to see what happens. Don’t ever try to end your life. It won’t live up to your expectations. It’ll be horrible, awful and a hundred more words for gruesome. And for what? Most likely, you’ll live. 


(I know what I wrote sounds preachy, but it’s not meant to be. I was going to continue it with a tale of mine from a horrible, awful and a hundred more words for gruesome experience, but the truth is, I can’t phrase it. I can’t find the words to capture it. To be hundred percent honest I can’t really capture it inside myself either, it’s hard to think about. So my appalling story that was meant to scare you away from doing stupid stuff will remain inside myself, and hopefully scare myself out of doing stupid stuff. 

But if we stop to think about it, what good does it do us to continue sabotaging ourselves? Why do we continue telling ourselves the shit our abusers used to tell us, when the sound of their voices isn’t anything more than a memory to us now? Wouldn’t it be great if we could stand up for ourselves against ourselves, the same way we wish someone would’ve done it against others, who treated us bad, back then?)

What am I gonna wear?! How to fake a smile!?

It’s been 919 days since my last day of school. Two and a half years. That’s a long time, at least for someone my age. I dropped out in the middle of the year. At first it wasn’t even dropping out it was just a break, sick leave. But then the school year ended, and I hadn’t had the opportunity to come back yet. I guess that makes it dropping out.

 This was some kind of boarding school, and it was at night it happened. Some friends of mine was worried, and it ended up with the house matron (wtf, this doesn’t translate very well) calling an ambulance. So I rode into the dark winter night with a colorful summer dress on, I didn’t even bring socks or a toothbrush or even my phone. I suppose this was the start of the hospitalization-hell that became my life the following years.

Since this happened school’s been so far away from my life. I haven’t been heading anywhere. Or that’s what it’s felt like at least. It’s been 919 days since my last day of school, but tomorrow I’m starting again. And hell I don’t feel like I’m heading anywhere now either. This course I’m taking is far away from studying full-time, or even half-time. I’m not gonna be something at the end of this. But if I take a moment to think about what I’ve just written … If I give myself some slack and acknowledge the struggle therapy and getting better is: Oh hell yeah I’m heading somewhere! The few hours I’m gonna sit in that library tomorrow is more than enough proof that this isn’t only hospitalization-hell anymore.

It’s definitely still a struggle, but now there’s another side to it as well. Wish me luck.