I’m 25, and I don’t know how that happened

I haven’t visited wordpress in such a long time, and then tonight I got the idea to check back in and read some of my old posts. And then as I figured I’d try to write something it dawned on me that I am 25.

… And anyone reading this probably read it straight-forward. I am 25. But you can’t do it like that. You have to read it with intent. I. am. twenty. five. 25!

And anyone who knows me, the way I know me, which basically is just me, will know that that’s quite a ginormous accomplishment. (But now all you other people know too because I told you.) I barely believe it despite writing it, and despite contemplating it. I am 25! And I never thought I’d live to see 22. Or 23. I remember writing sad notes, and diary entries how I swore I’d never live to see my 22nd birthday. Not to be dramatic, but because I truly believed that my heart would never continue to beat for so long. It was inevitable that I’d die within a short period of time. But I didn’t only become 22, or 23. I’m 25! And it’s a miracle! Or … I could say it’s a miracle. But then again, this isn’t God’s work, it’s my work. And it’s been hard work. The hardest work.

And this is probably the point where I should say that everything is better now, and that I finally see the light in the end of the tunnel, and that it was all worth it because it made me into the person I am today, and how I did it and bladifuckingsda. But I’d be lying. And I don’t lie. I try not to. The painful truth is better. Because the mask is hurting us. The truth is I still think about dying, a lot. The truth is I still struggle a lot with relationships and believing I’m worth something, and deserve to live and have a good life. There is no light in the end of the tunnel, but I’ve stopped looking at it as a tunnel. It’s just now, and sometimes there’s light. I think it won’t ever be worth it. Ignorance is bliss and I’d choose that every day, even if it meant I wouldn’t be a particularly contributing person in the world or society. Thinking is my downfall. But luckily also what makes me keep going, and makes me untangle some of this mess.

I am 25! And no matter if the reason that I’m awake right now is because I’m thinking of hurting myself again, and of just dying already (!), taking a moment to reflect over that achievement in the light of my suffering the last … in light of the suffering and trauma trough-out my life is warranted. I am 25. I. am. twenty-five. And I’ve laughed, and I’ve smiled during the last four years. And I’ve never felt the love, life and laughter reach all the way inside – I’ll admit that, I’m still “apart” – but I have laughed! And it’s more than I thought was possible.


I’m a worthless piece of trash, am I not?

Last night I couldn’t get to sleep before 6 am. And you know what? That’s what I deserve. The self-loathing and shame, and guilty conscience for merely being alive is at an all-time high. In some way I don’t really hate myself, I think I have good values and I treat people well, but still … I just have this rock solid conviction that I’m worthless, and deserve pain, suffering and death.

This night I don’t think I should sleep at all. After all I got 5 hours of sleep last night/morning, and that should be enough for such a idiot like me.

I just want to tell everyone out there that is suffering: YOU DON’T DESERVE THE PAIN! You really don’t. And as someone commented on my post, it may be hypocritical to say that to others when one cannot believe in it oneself, but that is what depression does to you. It makes you believe you are the sole exception. The only human on the planet who’s worthless, who’s nothing. No one deserves the pain that comes from hopelessness, helplessness and overwhelming sorrow, but me. This is what depression makes us all believe. But I want to tell all of you who’s in pain right now: You don’t deserve it. It will get better.

But not for me. 

XO – Marie

I wish there was a doctor who could stitch my life up, pull all the edges together

I sit in the emergency room getting stitches. The doctor is asking me if I’m feeling ashamed of what I’ve done, if I’m ashamed of my self-harm. In between my outbursts of hysterical laughter, I manage to tell him that I am. That it’s not just the self-harm I’m ashamed of, but also the fact that I’m miserable and depressed. Because who am I to be sad when I got everything material settled, when I got a nice family and good friends? Who am I to spill a single tear, who am I to feel hurt, and feel the pain of the world pushing on my shoulders? I’m ashamed that I’m sick. Not because I think that mentally ill should be ashamed, of course not, not for a second. But because I am a worthless piece of shit, and I shouldn’t be allowed to feel pain, I should just suck it up and get over it, right?

I’m sitting on the exam table, bending my leg over, so he’ll be able to access the gaping hole in my body. I can barely keep still, I’m laughing so much. I’m loopy, and even if I try to stop howling, I can’t. I can barely pull myself together to answer his questions. But at the same time I’m totally clear inside my head. It feels like I’m trapped there. My thoughts are spinning, but I’m still clear, I’m still aware of how I sound, how I look. Shame isn’t really the feeling that fills me, it’s frustration. Frustration that it isn’t tears I’m hiding behind the hands covering my face. It’s an idiotic laugh, that doesn’t fit the situation at all. I’m not happy! So why am I laughing so hard, desperately, frantic?

He’s giving me a local anesthetic, it stings. Then I sit there watching him pressing the needle in and out of my skin, pulling the edges together. Why did I do this to myself? Why did I do this to myself? Why did I do this to myself? How could I make a hole in my skin? How could I cut deep into myself like that? How is that possible? HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE!? … And how …  sigh …  how is it possible to be trapped inside yourself, yelling to yourself about being quiet, and still keep laughing as you see a doctor neatly putting you back together again? Where is the control? Where is the sense in that?

I get a valium, and go back home. I know that I’m stitched up, put together, fixed … but I’m not. I’m broken. I’m fucking broken, and I don’t know what to do about it, I don’t even know where all the shattered pieces are. I don’t know why I should even care about pulling it together. Why not just trash this life, it’s broken anyways? I take the valium, and some extra sleeping pills, and am grateful that I have a low tolerance, I barely make it to the bed from the couch once it starts working. I literally dive into bed, with my clothes on, and I’m taken away.

Sadly there’s a morrow.



PS: The doctor was amazing. He was real nice, probably the nicest I’ve met in the depressed, I hurt myself, I need help situation. I was glad I met someone who didn’t seem to judge me, I needed someone like that, though, don’t we always?

Good bye hospital, hello world

I wrote a post with this same title over half a year ago. I had been committed against my will because I wasn’t making any sense. In one moment I was laughing at the skies outside, which I saw from the window in my therapists office, the next I was uncontrollably crying, saying random stuff about things on the walls. I was obsessively talking about how great I was feeling, how okay I was, through the tears splattering out my eyes. I’m so happy, I said. And then I crept up the walls. I didn’t exist. I don’t think I’ve ever said so many words in such a short space of time. I was just rambling along, moving from one subject to another, not censuring myself at all. I said things I didn’t mean, I said things I denied being true, I said things I didn’t realize was true. I just kept going and going and going. So they locked me up for some days. And then they let me back out. In the last post I wrote how disappointed I was in the system, and I still am disappointed about what happened those three days. Because what makes them discharge someone that few days later is so ill they have to commit them again, against their will this time also? If I could’ve stayed a bit longer that first time, maybe things hadn’t gotten so bad that it had to go half a year before I was well enough to get back out. Because my third day there I kind of wanted to stay a while, because I realized that creeping up the walls, and laughing uncontrollably for several hours straight, loosing control wasn’t healthy, wasn’t good, wasn’t anywhere near being able to take care of myself. I was ready to get help.

But three days later I was on another planet. I was never going to accept help again. I was never going to live another day. And it might sound strange that things changed so much just in the span of some days, but that’s the truth. I was really on the edge when I lost control that day in my therapists office, it all started to crumble down, I was spinning out of control. And that third day I saw that, I understood that, and I knew I needed help. I felt myself loosing the grip on the world,  I was just one step away from free falling. And when they rejected me, that step was made. I had lost control, and I didn’t realize any longer that my perception of the world was me being sick, I didn’t see or understand that I needed help, I was too lost for that. All I knew was I was going to die and I thought that I was perfectly healthy in believing that.

6 weeks ago I was discharged again, for the umpteenth time. Then I had been admitted for more than 3 months consecutively, and for half a year more or less (some days discharged because they couldn’t keep my against my will any longer, few days later I got worse and they put me in again). But this time it was planned, it was a step in the right direction. The last 6 weeks I’ve been trying so hard on my own. And the moment where I need to take a trip back to hospital hasn’t come yet, and I don’t see it in the near future either. This time it really is good bye hospital, hello world. I exist in the world. And writing that is so big. It must sound stupid, but to me, that’s so big. I don’t mean that the derealization has stopped, or that I am alive existentially. What I mean is that I have thoughts about the world, I as a person has a life that is more than hospital, and more than my own mind. My life has the world in it. Gosh, I don’t think I’m making myself understood … well, at least I understand myself. Thaha!

I’m not saying that things are easy now, and I’m not saying that I’m not ill anymore, what I’m saying is that fighting with all you have, with all you are, will make a difference, it will move you from one situation to another. What I’m saying is that even if you fight for so long, and you feel as if it is all you’ve ever done, and even if you think for days and days and days on end that nothing will ever change, it will never get any better, and for so long it never does get better, it will. It does. Do I still think of dying? Yes, everyday. Several times a day. But is it all I do? No, not anymore. I’m not where I was some months ago. Not just in a physical way, but in an emotional and mental way. I’m not the zombie that didn’t see anyone else, and who didn’t know what the reflection in the mirror was. I don’t have that one track mind any more. There is room for other stuff. For some good stuff even. And no matter how much I want to give up, and no matter how often I feel like I’m fed up and has had enough of life for better or worse, I don’t want to make the mistake of not acknowledging that, that it has gotten better. No matter how much it hurts, still, no matter how hard it is to keep going, I am not going to forget that somehow it was worse than this a while back, even if that sounds impossible. It’s not good, but it is better. Even if it’s just an inkling. A drop is still a drop, even though the ocean is wide (quote by me!).

You made it through the year

Tomorrow it’s my birthday. I’m anxious. But at least I know there won’t be any tears this year! For the first time in history! (Or, maybe there will be tears, but since I haven’t been able to shedding them lately, I don’t think anything will change tomorrow … or, maybe it will, who knows, it’s become a tradition by now to cry on my b-day after all! Buhu, life sucks!)

I do have plans, but I’m super worried that they won’t turn out good, and that I’ll be reminded that I should die by the end of the day. It’s strange with becoming a year older, you hear that voice in your head, the one that is oddly familiar with the boy next door who used to tell you how much you sucked. I mean, it’s often there, but on a day like that, it’s there more, because you shouldn’t be allowed to feel the happiness that is often associated with those days. You shouldn’t even’ve become a year older. You should’ve died already. That voice, however familiar to the boy next door and to the teachers in elementary and your long time friend who should’ve known better, most of all it’s familiar to your own. Because that is what it does to you: it manipulates you to start tormenting yourself, because all they say is true, so you’ll tell the truth too, right? It’s that, or knowing that they are wrong, and feeling that they are wrong, and seeing that no one does anything about it. Somewhere along you learned that it was easier thinking you deserved it. So all these years later, when turning a year older, making it through all those 365 days, you hear that voice again, shouting in your head, that you’re not worth it. But as I said, I do have plans, and I’m gonna meet some great friends, and maybe some hugs and being surrounded by love (oh, cheesy!) will make that stupid voice fade.

Now I’m gonna go to bed, showered and smooth, and read some chapters in Divergent, before I fall asleep into the clean sheets I just put on. I’m gonna try not to worry about tomorrow, the first thing I can do to not let it get bad is to be rested.

PS: Wow, reading this my life sounds so privileged and good. Well sometimes the pain doesn’t shine through, and I should probably be happy with being able to put up a sweet exterior. The truth is I’ll be happy (read: ok) if I get through tomorrow without any new scars and a couple of hugs.

For some further reference, check out my birthday last year: What defines your happiness?

Why do I keep pushing, when no matter what I do, I end up feeling the pain?

I am proud of myself. Hallo! am proud of myself. When did that ever happen before?
And I am disappointed. But I know I shouldn’t be disappointed, because I did as well as I could, and I tried, and I did so much more than I had expected from myself, and not doing it 100% is allowed, and it’s still new to pay attention to myself and my needs so I understand that I didn’t manage to do it 100% perfect.

Today I went out and spent time with some friends. Not close friends, just one of them were. We were 6. I think it’s almost a year since the last time I was surrounded by so many people that wasn’t my family, or medical people, at once. I was nervous, I was filled with anxiety, I felt worthless, but I did it! I fucking did it, man! Me! I. And I know I left too late, that I spent too long there for my own good. That I should’ve cut it shorter, but it was so hard. Because I had an ok time, so maybe I could just stay a little longer. Because the others didn’t go home so early, so maybe I could just stay a little longer. Because what was I supposed to say when I left early, and the others stayed (?), so maybe I could just stay a little longer. Because it was nice being out of the house for once, and it was ok to meet my friends, and to listen to them talk and be excited about a life that didn’t involve pain, so maybe I could just stay a little longer. But I shouldn’t have, I should’ve known better, and left early. But I didn’t know better, and there is no point in beating myself up about that, because I went out. I went out of the house and met people, and that is BIG. That is something that is so hard to do. So so what if I didn’t leave when I should’ve, I did something great still, and you can’t expect things to be perfect, and you can’t expect yourself to know better all the time. I thought it would be ok to stay longer, but I was wrong, and I am allowed to be wrong without having to die for it.

So yeah … I think I’m proud. I don’t feel proud, but I think proud. What I feel though, is that I should die. I should die tonight. I should end it all. Life is too painful. Life is terrible. And this is how I know I stayed too long. The repercussions of wearing yourself down when you’re depressed, and when you get overstimulated by the world because of sensory problems and stuff  … fuck, it sucks. I don’t wanna wanna die. I don’t wanna feel shitty. I am happy (not like in a feeling kinda way, but a reasonable kinda way) that I went, and that I pushed myself to be social, but I’m just so sad that this is how my life is. Instead of going home from a nice evening with nice people and feeling like a hundred bucks going to bed and falling asleep with a smile on my mouth, I want to die. And that is not how it’s supposed to be. And I’m so sad, so disappointed, that this is how my life is. I don’t want this. I’m so tired. I’m so awfully fed up with being sick.

But! I am proud. (I reaaaaaally don’t feel proud, but I should be, because I pushed myself to do something that was extremely hard for me to do, and I went through with it, doesn’t that give me reason to be proud?) What do you say? Do you have any well-meaning words that could cheer a terribly worn down person up?

Self-harm on a whole new level!

I’m a little bit embarrassed to admit this, because I think it’s terrible, but here goes …

My self-harm has come to a new level. It’s not clean cuts, or a bunch of clean cuts. It’s not stitches, or a bunch of stitches. It’s nothing that will make me have to go to the doctor, where I’ll get those condescending looks, and where I’ll be met with overbearing nurses who don’t want to listen when I try to tell them what kind of thread they need to use on my skin. I won’t have to take the risk of meeting a doctor who’ll make me justify being sick, or who’ll treat me badly because surely I must like pain. This won’t leave traces on my skin which’ll haunt me forever, only I can know the harm it has done to me, unless I’m very unfortunate and it turns out the wrong way. This won’t be visible on me, and I will never spend time trying to hide it, because it’s hidden most of the time anyways. I’ll never be left disappointed with the world because of this. It’ll never give me experiences of inferiority (visiting the doctor for self-harm often does). But it hurts.

I’m inclined to say that it hurts worse than any cut ever has, but I’m not sure if I’m saying that because it’s true or because in this moment it’s pulsating with pain. It hurts when I do it, and during the night, to the point it wakes me up sometimes, and then for days after. It hurts so much it makes me walk funny, and sometimes it’s so bad I look totally ridiculous when walking. It hurts in a very demanding way, it’s insisting to be felt, to be thought of, to be endured. It makes me feel like an idiot! Because who would do this to themselves? Who?! And why would someone do this to themselves? And three days after when it still hurts I think to myself that I shouldn’t have done it, but then I remember that I should, I deserve it. There’s no escaping it, because it’s already done and only time will make it right again. But I deserve that. How can I think that? And it makes me feel like an idiot even more because rationally I know that there are risks with doing this, like an infection (which could make me have to visit the doctor), or it never growing back. But I guess all self-harm in one way is idiotic. I don’t wanna be an idiot though, but I don’t know how to not hurt myself. I’m obviously not well.

I’ve been pulling my nails out.


Edit: I’m starting to wonder if I’m more messed up than I thought.