past years, past life

it’s days like these when i think back the most to the me i was 4 years ago. addicted to the rush of seeing myself bleed, addicted to the sting that came, addicted to seeing my flesh split open so easily. like cutting through butter once i figured out the right angle. it’s day like these where i stare at my body with morbid fascination, wondering where i could decorate myself but have no one see. i haven’t been this sick (because let’s face it that’s what it is. it’s an illness, an addiction, an obsession) in a long time. yeah i’ve slipped up here and there and made some shallow attempts of what i used to know but what i feel now? this is big this is too much this is not a feeling i ever wanted to feel again yet here i am.

that’s a different version of me, not one i want to be today. i want to be happy. i want to be healthy. i want to be better. i don’t want to be fixed because i’ll never be fixed because i’m not broken i’m just fucked up. also like, you can’t fix bipolar disorder even though i wish you could. i don’t want to go back to the old me. i’m trying really hard not to but asking for help is my least favorite thing ever. i dream in red. i scare myself. i know what i want to do but i won’t do it. i know who i want to talk to but i can’t do it.

all of these posts are stupid. i’m stupid. i don’t know why i bother with things because i don’t want to write it out on a website and still hide how i really feel. i want to be able to share it and talk about it and figure out what the fuck is going on. what a concept.

lonely

there’s a type of loneliness that can’t be filled by friends or family or a great job. there’s this deep loneliness that comes from losing something or someone and not knowing how to fill that void. people seek comfort in other people and they search for it in specific people. the thing is, i know exactly why i’m lonely. i see my friends all the time now and i go the extra mile and i don’t cancel when i’m tired because i know i need to be social and i know it’ll make me feel better. i have a great job that i love and i love my students and making a difference in their lives and seeing their smiling faces everyday and hearing the stories that they are so excited to tell me in the morning warms my heart and brings me so much joy. i am part of a great team and a great sport and i am surrounded with people who don’t take me for granted and who give me feedback and who build my confidence so that i can continue to be the best coxswain that i can be. but when i go to bed at night, i see the empty side of the bed. it’s silent in my room except for the sound of the ever whirring fan. it’s the worst feeling ever to know that if i roll over, i am rolling into an empty space, not the arms of someone i love dearly. he’s not there. and not only is he not there physically, but emotionally too. there’s so much shit going on in R’s life and i get it, i understand it. i’m not a bitch. but i am needy and i have needs to. and i try to leave him alone but i miss him so much and just for a few minutes a day i would love to feel like a priority to him. i know in my heart that i want to be with him forever. and call me crazy, but all i want right now is attention. something to hold on to. something to fill this void that is eating me from the inside out. i’ve started slipping back into some self-destructive tendencies and i know i am but i have no desire to stop. i’ve lost 12 pounds since moving home and i greatly look forward to losing more. i know i need to stop and to eat but like.. i don’t want to. i am so fucking empty inside that what’s the point of filling myself with food when food isn’t what i want? i feel like a shell in almost every aspect right now. and today i told him exactly how i felt about him and us and part of me regrets that because what if that’s the final straw and he thinks I’m too crazy? i want to go to him but i don’t want to burden him. i don’t want to push him away. he hardly talks to me as it is (mostly because he doesn’t have a phone ┬ábut even still. all i want is his attention for 10 minutes, 5 even, and to have a full conversation). i don’t know how he’s doing, i don’t know what’s going on in his life right now. i miss him. and yeah i probably sound crazy on here to but like who fucking cares anymore? might as well scream it to the fucking world that i am so beyond miserable and hurting so badly and the one person who can help isn’t there and i’m absolutely terrified that he’s going to forget about me.

i just want to know i’m loved and missed. i just want to know i’m cared for. i’m sick of being lonely. i’m sick of having an empty bed and silent evenings. i’m so fucking sick of feeling the way that i am feeling.

i don’t want to be lonely anymore i can’t do it i’m not a person who can be alone and not just because i’m a mental and emotional wreck. i don’t want to be alone but i don’t want to find solace in other people, not in the way that i crave it. there’s an R shaped hole in my heart and it’s fucking crushing me.

i regret ever starting 13 reasons why (tw)

the first time i tried to kill myself was in 6th grade. i was in the bathroom at my moms friends house. we had just moved and i was the new kid again, just like i was every 2 years. feeling lost in the world is the worst. feeling lost in the world while going through puberty fucking sucks. i knew that there were 7 layers of skin, so i figured it would be pretty easy to scratch myself until i broke through them all. in actuality i gave up pretty quickly on the scratching and i went to find my mom in tears because if this wasn’t working then maybe i needed something more. she was so embarrassed by me. all her friends watched me come running out of the bathroom sobbing, my arms stretched out reaching for my mom and my mom was looking at me in shock.

the next memorable time (and unfortunately there were some other random attempts in between) wasn’t until freshman year of high school. i can even tell you the exact date: december 28, 2010. my first boyfriend broke up with me. my three best friends had abandoned me weeks ago. i was diagnosed with depression, but that was just the tip of the iceberg. turns out, i’m a hell of a lot more than just depressed but it took a bottle of ibuprofen and a lot of puking to figure that one out.

but this post isn’t my failures (or my successes, depending on how you want to look at it). i’m on spring break. i started watching 13 reasons why because i loved the book and truthfully i needed a new show. well, today i watched the last episode and i bawled. first, the image of hannah slitting her wrists is burned into my mind. how many times did i play that scene over in my mind but i was hannah? i couldn’t watch the whole scene, i had to close my eyes. but what really broke me were her parents. i was so selfish. my parents almost got divorced because of the shit i put them through. and had i not failed at killing myself, who knows what would have happened. i wanted to hold her parents and love them. and her friends. and alex. and clay. i guess i never thought beyond being dead. i would be happy, as happy as you can be when you’re dead, and life would move on. i was a burden out of the way now. i’m so fucking glad i puked. that i chickened out because i’m scared of blood, and that the time i wasn’t scared of blood i’m thankful as fuck to have been interrupted. i’m thankful i had the chance to grow and recover to be the person that i am today.

but even beyond hannah killing herself, it was the sexual assault that bothered me too. something i push back into my deep dark corners and try to forget exists, is that i had a bryce. i dated a bryce. no, he didn’t rape me the way he did hannah and jessica. but the actions and the inability to recognize wrongdoing and sexual consent.. it was all too eerily familiar. it scares me. it worries me. i just want to curl up in a ball and keep crying but i know that i have to be stronger than that because i refuse to let shit like that define me.

but i’ll gladly be defined by the fact that i regret watching 13 reasons why. i’ll gladly be defined by the fact that my own mental health is more important than a tv show. i’ll gladly be defined by the fact that if they make the awful decision to make a season 2, i’ll be damned if i ever watch that shit. don’t watch 13 reasons why. it’s not worth it.

two posts, one day

i’m on spring break. i should be having a great time, but in reality the best part of my break is being with R when he’s not in class/working, and smoking. the work i have to do is unreal. the thought of going back to school fills me with dread. and to top it all off, i decided to start watching 13 reasons why on netflix. honestly, i’m not sure why i’m watching it. it’s not terribly good, and they romanticize mental illness.

what. the. fuck.

we live in a generation where it is okay to think suicide is trendy and we should put a girl killing herself in a tv show. we live in a generation where showing a girl being raped is fine on a tv show. why do we have to glamorize it? it’s not pretty, it’s not cute, it’s not okay to joke about. i am very conflicted about this show. great! it’s bringing awareness to suicide and mental health issues! but when do they talk about that? the show is haunting, but it’s turning into something that i’m sure the producers never intended it to be. i truly had high hopes for this show. they had the chance to really talk about suicide and the impact it makes but instead it became a joke. all of the memes going around? “welcome to your tape” ya okay let’s openly mock suicide. and her parents. oh my god her parents. when i was 16, i was in a worse place than hannah. not to say that she isn’t in a bad place, but like shit i was lower than rock bottom. seeing her parents reminded me of mine, and reminded me why this is so serious. why this shouldn’t be joked about. my mom still can’t listen to the song “gone gone gone” by phillip phillips without crying. and that was five years ago. and i didn’t even die, i lived by some miracle. and i’m glad i did. this show should have done so much. it could have made such an impact. instead it just stirred up old thoughts and memories, and an unbridled anger and sadness at what could have been.

c’est la vie