2012-02-23 10:27:18 (UTC)

i am an ocean

(We don't care about your laws, because they don't make sense.)

I bleed like you bleed. I just do it on purpose.

Sometimes I get the urge to do something self-destructive, not for any reason, but purely for the sake of it.

Ich verletze mich weil ich glaube immer stark sein zu müssen. Schwäche ist peinlich. Und unverzeihlich.

The sad moment when you realise how alone you actually are. That no one ever messages you on facebook first or texts you first or anything. So it gets to the point where you don’t want to put in the effort with people who don’t put in any effort for you so you end up spending your life at home, never going anywhere.

I’d rather be full of knowledge and miserable, than ignorant and the happiest person alive.

I've learned to love the pain, because it's the only way i know how to feel.

Don’t talk, you’re making yourself look fucking stupid. Don’t laugh, it’s annoying as fuck. Don’t try making a connection with anyone, you’re becoming more pathetic with each attempt. Don’t hold on, you’re going to fucking let go sooner or later anyways. Don’t expect someone to make an effort with you, you’re just gonna let yourself down again. Don’t try, whats the fucking point? Don’t cry, you’re fucking weak. Don’t feel anything anymore, numbness is all you fucking know now. Don’t hope for freedom, these chains are never going to be cut loose. Ever. Don’t even breathe; it’s fucking pointless.

You don't need water to feel you're drowning, do you?

I don't know how to be someone that you would miss.

They may be scars now, but I still remember exactly how the razor felt against my skin.

The definition of darkness is the absence of light. You can not see darkness. Darkness can not exist with light. Darkness can not be explained. Darkness only comes when everything else has gone. Darkness is nothing... then darkness is everything.

Here comes the feeling you thought you'd forgotten.

I was innocent once.

I'm just too tored to care anymore.

I get so tired of communicating.

I'm sorry the walls I built kept you out. I was just hoping you'd care enough to knock them down.

I'm happy being sad, as fucked up as that sounds. It's familiar. I know what to expect. It doesn't let me down.

...just to wait until there is nothing left to wait for.

The cold realization that I'm still here, slowly begins to set in.

what doesn't kill you makes you wish it did.

I am not a real cutter because I never cut deep enough.
I am not suicidal because I never go through with it.
I am not an alcoholic because I drink for good reasons too.
I am not depressed because I fake a smile well.
I am not lonely because there are to many people around me.
I can't tell you the truth because you wouldn't believe me anyways.

And then suddenly, for no apparent reason, everything started to fall apart.

I don't know wether I'm getting better or just used to the pain.

I don't know how I feel about anything anymore. My mind is a mess.

I over analyze situations because I'm scared of what will happen if I'm not prepared for it.

When I open up to people about myself I feel weak and pathetic.

...and it's like you're homesick for a place that doesn't even exist.

Self harm moves the pain from your brain to you body.

...that feeling where you're just so sick of everything and want to curl up in somebodies arms.

It becomes this thing you learn to live with, like a sadness that doesn't go away.

We're all addicted to something that takes away the pain.

there it goes again. that heavy feeling in your chest when you don't feel any desire to speak or move.
All you want to do is close your eyes and sleep, because the process of being broken is incredibly exhausting.
You attempt your best to make your days fullfilling, but no matter how hard you try
you can't seem to connect to anyone or anything.

Sometimes I just have those days that I don’t want to be alive. Not necessarily die or kill myself, but maybe just sleep for a year or two until everything is figured out and I can stop feeling like this. I’m just lost, and sad, and confused, and I don’t know if anyone understands that. I just want to take a break from it all for a while.

I don't think that I was trying to kill myself, but I knew that if I ever went too far, I wouldn't care.

I need someone more miserable than myself.

I’ve run out of reasons to live.

"Are you really OK?" - "I am acting like I am OK. Please don't interrupt my performance."

I woke up tired of life.

...and no amount of sleep will make you feel awake.

I have a tendency to be self-destructive.

We grow used to the sadness, simply incorporate it into our days.

I'm sick of getting my hopes up for nothing.

Can you stop talking 'cause I don't care

You make jokes because you're afraid to take anything seriously. Because if you take things seriously, they matter.

Every scar I have makes me who I am.

Don't ask because I don't remember.

Don't regret anything, because at one time it was exactly what you wanted.

When you have a relationship with someone who is mentally ill, you have a relationship with mental illness, not a person.

The pain was a release from reality, and control was my drug.

Sometimes when I say "I'm okay", I want someone to look me in the eyes, hug me tight and say, "I know you're not".

"bein' here for me" just isn't gonna help and it ain't easy to know you'll need me and I won't be here.

I cut because it's my safe place, the place that only I control.

I need to stop one pain with a different kind of pain.

I don't think I'll ever find someone who understands.

I want to cut. I want to slash my wrists. I want to rip them open. I want them to bleed until there is a pool at my feet.

Because you shouldn’t care about hiding your scars or being ashamed.
If somebody stares? Stare back.
If somebody asks? Say it’s personal.
If they don’t get it? Change the subject.
If somebody finds you repulsive? They’re not worth thinking about.
If friends see you differently? They’re not real or true friends.
Your skin doesn’t change your personality.
Compare with racism. Does skin color matter?
Scars shouldn’t either.
We all have scars. We all have stories.
It’s a part of you, but not all of you.

People tell me not to cut because it's bad. (As sick as it is...) I don't understand what's so bad about it (anymore).

As bad as this may look, it's nowhere near as bad as I feel inside.

The scariest thing about someone finding out, isn’t that they’ll find out. It’s that they’ll think your attention seeking and/or stupid.

(I’ve been clean for some years and it feels like yesterday. It’s no longer about being clean, it’s about getting through the day without any cuts on my arms and it’s becoming truly unbearable.)

I want to carve up my arms and not have to worry about them scarring. I want to feel the blood dripping all down me, and be in that incredible state that you get from slicing into your skin. I want to bleed out all my depression. All because there is nothing else that can console me.

Sometimes I feel like driving in my car until I fall asleep and crash.

We’re all running away from something. Should I tell you my life story, or only that I am running, like you, like everyone. Would you understand, if I told you?
Do you know who you are? I doubt it. I don’t know who I am, either.
I guess there’s a connection there, somewhere. And the rest of it? Well, I am so tired. So tired.

One more cut would not make any difference anymore.

When people think you’re crazy after you break down over something silly. Truth is, they don’t know you have been battling to hold back the tears for so long that you have become exhausted and will shatter over anything.

People who cut don't want to feel themselves.

What doesn't kill you will prolly try again.

We’re the ones with slit wrists and warped minds, the ones who feel caged by their own existence.

I prefer to do things alone, because whenever I'm with someone else, I feel compelled to make that person happy. I end up feeling like a supporting character in the story of someone elses life.

And like the sea
I'm constantly changing from calm to ill
Madness fills my heart and soul
As if the great divide could swallow me whole
Oh, how I'm breaking down

Excuse me, wich level of hell is this?

Not deep enough, you pathetic creature.

I stand on the side of the street. Watching cars go by, I suppress the urge to walk
in front of one.

what do you think happened? the magical scar fairy paid a visit to me one night?!

I can’t become a part of a crowd because I can’t get past that feeling that I don’t belong.

I Just Want To Cut.
Part of me just wants to cut so I don’t have to feel the swirling darkness in my mind.
Part of me just wants to cut so I don’t have to do the things I should be doing.
Part of me just wants to cut so I simply don’t have to think.
Part of me just wants to cut because I know I’ll enjoy it.
Part of me just wants to cut because I have new razors and that’s exciting.
Part of me just wants to cut for no other reason then I know I shouldn’t.

(I can’t exactly remember what cutting feels like, I just know it’s amazing. I want to remember better, it’s like my body is longing for a kick that it can’t remember.)

Life feels easier covered in fresh cuts. I’d really like to feel that right now.

Your scars are the most personal, most intimate part about you.

Maybe I’m not even depressed. Maybe this is how everyone feels. Maybe I’m happy and I just don’t know it. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with me.

I wonder what it would feel like to be freaked out by cutting, to be scared by the thought. I don’t remember ever thinking it was a disturbing thing to do, I just did it.

If I were the only person who could see my scars and they were invisible to everyone else, I would absolutely tear apart my entire body, head to foot.

If you're depressed, death is an upgrade.

No reason to stay is a good reason to go.

It's hard to wait for something you know might never happen. But it's even harder to give up when you know it's everything you want.

People always want to know what it feels like, so I’ll tell you: there’s a sting when you first slice, and then your heart speeds up when you see the blood, because you know you shouldn’t have, and yet you’ve gotten away with it. Then you sort of go into a trance, because it’s truly dazzling - that bright red line, like a highway route on a map that you want to follow to see where it leads. And - God - the sweet release, that’s the best way I can describe it, kind of like a balloon that’s tied to a little kids hand, which somehow breaks free and floats into the sky. You just know that balloon is thinking, Ha, I don’t belong to you after all; and at the same time, Do they have any idea how beautiful the view is from up here?

It’s so much easier not to care.

I don’t feel real right now. Nothing feels real. All I feel is cold and I think
I am dreaming.

That serene feeling you get after you're done cutting.. it's so beautiful.

It’s not so much that I want to die, it’s more I wouldn’t care if I did die. I’m not afraid at all of death.

I wanted to accidentally hit an artery.

There's too much to escape from. And nowhere to escape to.

I push people away hoping that somebody will stick around.

I want to cut really deep and bleed myself to sleep tonight.

"Depression is humiliating. It turns intelligent, kind people into zombies who can’t wash a dish or change their socks. It affects the ability to think clearly, to feel anything, to ascribe value to your children, your lifelong passions, your relative good fortune. It scoops out your normal healthy ability to cope with bad days and bad news, and replaces it with an unrecognizable sludge that finds no pleasure, no delight, no point in anything outside of bed. You alienate your friends because you can’t comfort yourself socially, you risk your job because you can’t concentrate, you live in moderate squalor because you have no energy to stand up, let alone take out the garbage. You become pathetic and you know it. And you have no capacity to stop the downward plunge. You have no perspective, no emotional reserves, no faith that it will get better. So you feel guilty and ashamed of your inability to deal with life like a regular human, which exacerbates the depression and the isolation.
Depression is humiliating.
If you’ve never been depressed, thank your lucky stars and back off the folks who take a pill so they can make eye contact with the grocery store cashier. No one on earth would choose the nightmare of depression over an averagely turbulent normal life.
It’s not an incapacity to cope with day to day living in the modern world. It’s an incapacity to function. At all. If you and your loved ones have been spared, every blessing to you. If depression has taken root in you or your loved ones, every blessing to you, too.
Depression is humiliating.
No one chooses it. No one deserves it. It runs in families, it ruins families. You cannot imagine what it takes to feign normalcy, to show up to work, to make a dentist appointment, to pay bills, to walk your dog, to return library books on time, to keep enough toilet paper on hand, when you are exerting most of your capacity on trying not to kill yourself. Depression is real. Just because you’ve never had it doesn’t make it imaginary. Compassion is also real. And a depressed person may cling desperately to it until they are out of the woods and they may remember your compassion for the rest of their lives as a force greater than their depression. Have a heart. Judge not lest ye be judged." — Pearl

When I cut, my mind blanks.

"I guess the first step to losing yourself in your disease is the idealization of death. If someone told me, “You know you could die from this, right?” I would sit there and stare at them for a long while. Yes — I know I could die from this — but isn’t that what I want? To slowly but surely shrink, crumble, and float away? I used to be so afraid of dying: of death. But the more I think of it, the nicer it sounds. Death. Freedom. It’s synonymous in my head."

There is something inside of me,
and I know that it’s growing.
The thing that will forever be,
and I feel its shadow calling.

We might die from medication, but we sure killed all the pain.

Do it, go cur. You know you want to, you know you want to see that beautiful crimson slide down your arms and legs, dripping off you like the teardrops you refuse to let fall from your eyes. You know you want to feel the stisfaction of "accidentially" going too deep, bleeding just a little too much and slowly crossing over to a more peaceful world. You know you want it, it's like a drug to you. That's exactly what it is; a comparison to an addictive drug. YOUR drug.
You love the pain, you love the beauty of the liquid, you love everything about you, cuts and blades. It's your lifeline, and it's calling your name.
So, go cut again. Slice yourself up into little pieces until all your hurt is eaten away; feel that relief you want so badly. You'll regret it if you don't.

I cut because I am grey and I lust after the red.

I’m so ready to find my blades and fuck up.

I don't even feel like a "friend" to some people. I feel more like an option or someone they run to when they need someone.

I'm an ocean nothing floats on. I'm a sky that nothing wants to fly in.

I need this to be myself.

...because I'm not anything to anyone, not even to myself.

Times a bitch, but eventually, you’ll get to the point where it’s more work caring then throwing caution to the wind.

Each time someone else left, I cried out, "Don't leave me. Don't leave me here alone. I don't want to be left alone for forever."
But there was no sound.
No words.

So I gave myself to the knife, asked it to bite a little harder, chew a little deeper. The hot, scarlet rush felt so delicious. I couldn't stop there.

I think I just got tired of hitting the ground and having to pick myself back up. I’m afraid to fall because I know how hard it is to get backup, so I keep myself at the bottom.

Cutting never made me sad. I was sad before I hurt myself, afterwards I went numb and distant. Drifted into a place where nothing seemed to matter and I was just cold and calm. Relieved in some way.

I can pretty much guarantee you would lose me to my own destruction.
As everyone I’ve loved has.

If you've ever had that feeling of loneliness, of beeing an outsider, it never
quite leaves you. You can be happy or successful or whatever, but that thing
still stays within you. (Tim Burton)

When I'm outside on the streets, I sometimes wish a car could knock me over.
Simply because I'm tired. And I want to give up.

...because it silences everything.

You’re never going to be like anyone and that’s okay.

I don't belong here. I don't belong anywhere.

Every slightly negative comment reinforces your flawed idea that no one wants you around.

When there's nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire.

You feel too much, so you cut to feel numb.
You feel too numb, so you cut to feel something.

Validating. It’s like I need someone to validate my feelings and say “you’re reactions are logic” — to whatever the issue might be.

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