The last time I made a post I was happy.
Now I’m not. The voices in my head have gotten stronger and have added a new method of torture. They can now put images in my head. For example, I was downstairs and saw my sister on the computer. Not something out of the ordinary…then BAM. All I could see in my head was me strangling her. That’s not something I’d ever want to do to my sister. That’s something I can never unsee.
And that scares me.
Tonight all I can see is me slitting my wrists. It’s horrible. It’s making it impossible to sleep.
These are the days when I want to just be done with all of this.
I have started reading a book. It is called Carry On, Warrior: Thoughts on Life Unarmed. One chapter is called On Writing and Dancing. She starts out talking about how a friend of hers says she wants to write, but isn’t good at it. So the author (Glennon Doyle Melton) compares that to how she used to be afraid of dancing at weddings. And also kind of afraid of weddings in general. She is a recovering alcoholic so “sober dancing” was something that terrified her. This got me to thinking,
I’m a good dancer. I have training in many styles of dance. I was on pointe in ballet when I was 12. At every dance competition, I may not have gotten picked for best solo, but I almost always received an award for having “beautiful feet”. I love dancing at weddings. But wait, do I dance at weddings because I love being myself on the dance floor or because I want people to see that I’m a good dancer?
I still have no answer to this. Even at parties I want to dance. But, is it because I can dance or because I want to? I don’t have an answer to this yet. More to follow some other day.
I watched The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants last night and bawled my eyes out. I have seen it many many times before, but last night my elevated emotions were pulled at in every moment of the movie that was the least-bit profound or compassionate. I bring this up because there is a scene where a guy is telling a girl that he understands why she is shy. He tells her that some girls show off their beauty because they want the world to see it, while others hide their beauty because they want the world to see something else. This made me tear up because I’m not sure which one of those girls I am anymore. I want to be the one that is more secretive with her beauty, but I also want people to think I am beautiful. I’m a people pleaser so I also want people to like me even if it’s not for something that’s really me.
I guess I’m saying all of this because I’m still trying to figure out who I am and who I want to be. Writing about it is always a good coping mechanism for me. I know that not many people follow my blog mainly because I’m so scattered with when I post and many of my posts are incredibly depressing triggers. But I guess I just wish more people followed me because I feel that I have so much to say and hardly anyone can hear me.
But I suppose we all have to start somewhere.
Today’s lesson: Be yourself.
Last night was quite eventful.
I was cutting to stop the voices as per usual, but after 10 minutes they hadn’t gone away. Then 15 minutes, then 20 minutes. I ended up in the bathroom, still cutting, but washing off the blood running down my arm so I could see where I hadn’t cut yet. The voices were only getting louder. I was so scared that I wasn’t going to stop that I went and woke my mom up.
A 20 year old needing her mommy to help her, pathetic? Maybe.
In tears, I told her I couldn’t stop because the voices were still screaming in my ear. She calmly took me to the kitchen and helped bandage me up. Very badly, but, hey, she was tired.
After bandaging me up with a gauze pad and several insufficient band-aids, we watched Glee until 2:30 in the morning. That was nice.
Now I’m going to lunch with my mom and step-dad. Hey, it’s free food. WOOHOO.
When your boyfriend is thinking of breaking up with you because he can’t handle your depression, one sits in bed trying not to slit their wrist.
When your stomach has been in knots all day waiting for your boyfriend to say you can come over to talk, one sleeps as much as possible so they don’t have to sit in agonizing pain.
When your boyfriend cancels on you, one wishes to cut so badly they can hardly breath.
When you can’t cut because it will make your boyfriend even more upset with you, one tries all sorts of ridiculous coping mechanisms trying to resist the strong urge to cut.
When you can’t suppress the darkness…one cuts.
I have these nights where the voices won’t leave me alone. Nights where I cut until they let me stop. Tonight, they made me cut for 20 minutes. The only reason they let me stop is because I ran out of room on my wrist.
They get angry when I try to get help or others try to help me. So asking for help is too hard. They get louder and louder until I can’t separate my thoughts from them.
I don’t want to die. But I do. I really do.
But I want to get married and have kids. I want to have a career. I want to see my baby’s first steps, their first tooth, their first day of school, and their graduation.
I want so many things. But right now it doesn’t seem that I’ll be able to get them because I won’t make it through this alive.
I guess I will just go to sleep and then wake up and do it all over again. I hate this.
People have been asking me why I’m depressed. I could list out all of the reason, but that would take awhile…I will try anyway.
When I was 6 years-old I was molested repeatedly by my “best friend”. His name was Jake (I think). He made me touch and put my mouth on his privates for months. One day I told a friend nonchalantly, then she told her mom who told my told my mom. Then the next thing I know we are in a different neighborhood where I have no friends.
During my freshmen year of high school, I had my first kiss with a boy named Sam (we will call him Sam). My friend Andie (we will call her Andie) was secretly in love with Sam so she turned all of our friends against me. I tried to remain under the radar because of all of this drama during my freshmen and sophomore years of high school.
On a cruise when I was 16, I lost my virginity to a guy in the ship. I cried. He was older. He also had a girlfriend. I didn’t know this encounter would change everything.
By the time I came back to the States, something had shut down inside me. I didn’t care who was inside me.
During my junior year, my friend Brent (fake name) killed himself by hanging himself in his closet. The summer before my senior year, my friend Kevin (fake name) killed himself also by hanging himself. I was in love with him. He was beautiful. I wish he could’ve known how much I cared about him before he did that to himself.
By then I was officially off the rails. I wanted nothing to do with “old-fashioned courtship”. I just wanted to feel affection from men. Which I got through sex. Lots and lots of sex.
Now that I am back home and out of school, I can say that I have had at least over 20 sex partners. I feel dirty. I feel disgusting. I want nothing but to slit my wrists and receive my dues as the true slut I am.
That is all I have to say. I’m sorry.