This was never a competition. It isn’t glamorous and it isn’t fun. I never wanted this and there isn’t a fucking second of my motherfucking life that I do. You can think whatever you want because I’m done here.
Save me from myself.
I’ve never been anything like the people around me. I couldn’t connect to their issues. I couldn’t worry about the trivial things that got them through each day. I couldn’t even bring myself to pretend that I gave a damn about the problems that plagued everyone I surrounded myself with. The things going on in my life were heavier. Listening to them go on nauseated me. The only person who really understood was myself. I was my only comfort through the things that happened to me I couldn’t speak of it. The world ran on money, relationship problems, family turmoil. I was in a world of my own And I got through everything on my own. I have always been on my own. The people around me have never really been people in a deeper sense of the word. I couldn’t look at someone and imagine them as an individual. They didn’t have thoughts or feelings. I percieved them as a part of my world. Parts of my life with their own functions. They belonged to me and they were my property. I needed them. I needed to push them away, I needed them to love me. It didn’t matter what happened to them. That’s how loving someone became completely selfish to me. I didn’t love them for who they were because they weren’t anyone to me. I loved them because I needed to, because loving them, having someone to love, was seemingly essential to my exsestential survival from day to day. It didn’t phase me that I was being manipulative or selfish. No one but myself existed in my mind. I could keep giving out my love or taking it away because, in the end, none if was real. It was all in my mind.
The determination of what exactly I felt in your presence was hazy. Every part of me was in competition with the world while you seemed to have it on a string around your finger, maneuvering it to have everything you desired. Yet, there were days I would listen to the things that broke your fragile heart and offer you the falsest sense of sympathy whilst every vein in my body pulsated from the burning rush of hot blood surging through me, threatening the surface of my skin, needing a slice to free it. You had no idea what pain really was. You lived in a fog, blind to what life was really like when it hit as hard as it could. Yet, there were days you would complain and, although I tried to understand, I couldn’t stomach it. I was so much stronger than you were. I had been through so much more than you had. Cheating, alcoholic, suicidal, abandoning, abusive, broken, dependent, absent illegitimate parents, babysitters and a bus driver that violated me, homelessness, harassment, rape, assault, mental disorders, addictions, and more. And I survived. while you broke down after a breakup. I was so much more of a person than you were, at such a young age. Didn’t that mean anything to anyone? I was more than that yet you were more than me. You captivated everyone with you beauty and eloquence in everything you did. I had none of that. I was all wrong in everything. I didn’t belong anywhere. I was a mistake. Lost. I envied you. Your ignorance and joy and perfection that radiated. Everything I had gone through, that I thought made me a stronger person, really made me weaker. I had shut down from life while it was still at your feet, full of opportunities. You are living the life I could never have. You are forever everything I wish and could never be.
I’m not eating anymore. I can’t even look at food these days. It’s been five full days since I’ve last eaten, the only things I can ever actually stomach being crackers or fruit juice. I’m dropping weight like crazy. It doesn’t feel like enough and I don’t think I care too much anymore. I don’t get out of bed unless I have to, I’m using again, slicing again. I’m craving cigarettes, my father’s sick again, I sleep too much and at all the wrong times. They want to section me again. I feel sick all the time, my sheets are stained with blood, my hair is falling out, I’m screening phone calls and text messages. I’m getting chest pains, blood clots, bruises. I don’t feel like I’m here. I never wanted to be like this.
Even if my hands could move fast enough or my thoughts could slow down, I don’t think I’d know just what to write. There are things, objects, people, and places, that have exact names to capture exactly what they are in every essence. That’s not the way it is with feelings, though. Not with thoughts of ides. At least, not with mine.
I don’t remember when it happened. There were so many moving bodies around me, so many bodies on me. My head was spinning, the music was blurring, the lights were blinding.
None of that mattered, though.
You put your hands on me and I didn’t care about feeling anything else. Your fingers dug into the flesh around my hipbones, your strong hands roughly guiding the movement of my hips to the music that pulsated around us. You were in complete control. I was at your mercy. My legs buckled from weakness, but your hands kept me going. Once I was at pace that satisfied you, your hands roamed my body, roughly grabbing me and then gently stroking my bare skin. Your fingertips burned, but your hands were so cold. I could feel your breath in my ear, could smell the smoke on. Then you let go of me, grabbing my hands with one of yours, lifting my arms above my head as you dropped your lips to my neck, brushing my hair aside, moving up to my earlobe.
“Fuck me.”
Everything you did drove me crazy. It might have been the drugs. It might have been the lightheadedness. But I wanted more. It was euphoria.
It was my first time. I had been touched, I had been fucked, but I had never had a say in the matter. I never had a choice. I followed you wordlessly to the club bathroom. The fluorescent lighting burned my eyes and again, the room was spinning. I was going to sick. I needed to sit down. I needed to get outside. I felt my breath hitch inside my throat, my heart racing. I wanted to get out. I wanted to be anywhere else. But you wanted me. You didn’t have time. You could have had anyone, but you wanted me. You took me. And I didn’t say no. I let you pull me in a daze through the small bathroom to the last stall, men hollering at you, speaking in a tongue I couldn’t understand, their words all blurring with the pounding in my eardrums.
Just like that, it was over. You were gone.
I pulled myself together. I pulled myself off the floor and to the sink.
I’d been through worse.
I couldn’t really register what had just happened. Even if I could, I could bring myself to think it mattered. It might have been the drugs. It might have been the lightheadedness.
My hands were shaking, palms sweaty, slippery skin grasping at the porcelain of a sink. I was cold, I was hot. My eyelids were dropping and I was trembling.
I wanted to get out.
Out of this life. Out of this pattern. Out of this mind.
Cut down to the bone.
Anonymous asked: What do you cut yourserlf with?
Can’t tell if this is a troll or just an unintentionally ignorant question…
This is breaking me. I hate you. I think you know I hate you. You must know I hate you. I’ve said it enough. I just don’t know why I’m still with you when I can’t even hear your name without wanting to cry. The funny thing is, we probably could have stayed friends before all of this. I needed you. I couldn’t be alone anymore. I craved some kind of physical gratification that felt like love and you were always so willing to give it to me. Everything about you burned my skin when you touched me. That’s as far as it would go. I’d feel your touch and nothing else. I don’t even know who you are anymore. I can’t see you. You’ve turned into something I can’t recognize and it’s so fucked up. These kinds of things never actually happen, right? This isn’t normal, whatever it is that waged between us that’s boiling over and down now. An attempt these days to sit in one another’s company escalates into a fight. Tense conversation turns into quiet arguing and screaming at the top of my lungs, sobbing into my hands while you walk away with no remorse, cursing at me. We don’t bother to hide this now, battling each other in public. Neither of us care anymore. Our passion and lust turned to anger too fast. I feel your shoulders stiffen when I wrap my arms around you. You push my hands away from you. I don’t even mind anymore. I’m too tired of this to put forth effort in keeping some part of you just to take your fury to bed.
Anonymous asked: what kind of disorders and addictions?
I’ve always been really hesitant to tell people these kinds of things because suddenly my feelings and problems automatically become symptoms and nothing more. I have gotten this question from several anons, however, so I will answer this once and only once. In the past eleven years, I’ve been diagnosed with and treated for manic depressive disorder, depression, anxiety, depersonalization disorder, borderline personality disorder, psychosis, post traumatic stress disorder, anorexia, bulimia, body dismorphic disorder, dependence on self-infliction, alcoholism, cocaine addiction, and obsessive compulsive disorder.
Anonymous asked: why don't you write anymore?
I think I know who this is. If I’m correct, you really don’t have to be anon. If I’m not, you really still don’t have to be anon. Jussayin.
I’ve sort of reached the peak of an eleven year long battle with several disorders and addictions. I’m focusing on trying to function day to day, to be honest. I’ll scribble something small and often intelligible at different periods through the day. I sat down and began something the other day that I may or may not finish and post soon, I’m really just not sure, though.
Regardless, knowing someone is reading means a lot. Thank you, precious.
I want to find someone just as lost in their own mind as myself and we could disappear somewhere else together.
