I wanna tell you something that will make you smile. I wanna make a change. I want you to feel better. I want you to be happy. But the truth is that I don’t know what to do to make you feel any kind of better. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.
I don’t even know what to do to make me feel better. I’ve been sad, sick, tired and hopeless for too long. Maybe this is the time to let go. The time to stop trying. The time to stop being afraid of what death will do to the ones I leave behind, and what it’ll do to me. Maybe I just need to take the leap … again.
Stranger, and not-so-much-a-stranger-anymore, I want to tell you something that will make you smile. But I’m not sure I can. But I will tell you this: I appreciate your comment. Even if I take weeks to come back to you, I will always respond as long as I’m alive. And every comment, and word of encouragement means a lot to me. To hear that my words is read at all … Yeah, that’s kind of nice. Never give up in your ability to make a change in someone else’s life. Believe in the power of your words, and your caring.
And Stranger, one more thing, you’re valuable, worth it, wonderful. Believe it. Reach.
It’s there when you put the blade to your skin. As you drag it through the skin cells, and create a wound. As the blood spills. But then it’s gone. Within the blink of an eye, it’s gone.
It’s there when you throw up your dinner. As you’re hurling in your bathroom. As tears gather in your eyes. But then it’s gone.You catch your breath, brush your teeth, and it’s gone.
It’s there when you tell him to do whatever he pleases with you. As you take your clothes off, and lie down to be used. As you compromise yourself and allow someone to treat you as if you’re worthless, because that’s what you are. But then it’s gone. He gets his release and then he caresses your chin as if you’re valuable, like it was all a game. He kisses your forehead and tells you you’re beautiful, and it’s gone.
It’s there when he throws the punch. As you trace your fingers along your jaw, to your lips, and you lift the hand in front of you, and you see there’s blood on it. As you turn the other cheek and get hit again. As the dizziness embraces you and it’s hard to stand on your feet. But then it’s gone. He gasps and is by your side in a stride. He apologizes under his breath and begs for forgiveness, and it’s gone.
It’s there when you stub a cigarette on your hip. As you watch your bruises in the mirror. As your empty nail beds brush against your covers. But then it’s gone. It only lasts a moment, and then the moment’s gone.
Relief, sweet relief, it won’t really stay, until I’m dead.
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.
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 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.
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.
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?)