LustingforNightmares

tumbleweed
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2014-07-26 14:29:49 (UTC)

Deleted

I hate myself. I hate myself. My stomach is on fire. I fee like I'm going to throw up. I deleted my last entry. It wasn't terrible but I got mad at me and I don't feel anything in my head anymore.

Feelings are gone. I think I felt happy yesterday. Then, I dropped off the face of the heart. I got really high. Like, really high.

I started to hear stuff and get lost in this world. I didn't know weed did that.

I just want to forget myself. To erase who I am. Everything.

I didn't do anything wrong, I just hate me with a passion. I'm fine. I'm not even as ugly today. I think what annoys me is when I have crushes on other people. It just drives me nuts. I've gotten pretty far on this whole vulnerability issue but it comes back. It comes back.

I am alone again and sometimes that feels like my whole life. Being alone.

Do I even make sense right now?

I hate sharing with other people. I told this to Daxton. After I told him about being bipolar and how I tried to kill myself, I told him I felt disgusting. He asked why and I said I have problems opening up to people. That it makes me feel wrong inside. That it's the only thing that feels like a real sin to me, deep in my brain. I didn't say that last thing but it's how I feel now.

I will go cut (no don't do that).

Why not? (Cuz you fucking bleed and scar, idiot.)

I like scars. They remind me that's I'm strong enough to hurt myself (fucking hell, if you were really strong, then you wouldn't HAVE to cut).

You are the idiot. I won't survive this pain. (Be strong.)

This argument is useless and you know it. I'm going to do it. (It was useless before you spoke that sentence. You changed your mind, didn't you?)

Yeah. Yeah, I'm not going to cut (unless you change your mind again)

SHUT UP I DONT NEED THE FUCKIG COMMENTARY. I DONT GIVE A FUCK WHAT YOU THINK. I DONT GIVE A FUCK ABOUT REGRETS AND STAINS ON MY
SKIN FROM WHERE THE BLOOD LEFT REMINDERS OF ITS EXISTANCE, I DONT CARE ABOUT REMEMEBRRING THAT IT EVEN LEFT.

My, my. My, my. Give me peace. (Isn't t give me love??)


Please stop. Please.

(I'm not even being mean. I'm just trying to be a friend. That's what the doctors said to do. Remember? They said to love yourself. They taught you healthy coping mechanisms.)

They didn't stop me when I was crying and ripping open my skin with my bare fingers and the sharp part of a flimsy bend toothbrush..

(... A fucking toothbrush. Toothbrush?! They're not even sharp.)

You're right about that. It took awhile to scrape away all the skin.

(I forget sometimes the things I have done. How eager I am to lose my childhood. Even now, when I never want it to leave, I push it farther back.)

Yeah, well. That's what the doctors say, I suppose. Forget about it, forgive yourself, bullshit like that.

(It's helps).

For how long? Doesn't mean you don't suffer.
Here mom comes. She's gonna yell at me.

(Okay fine, you know what, I'm done with you too)

What happened to the love and forgiveness?

(WHEN YOU ARE MOPEY, NO ONE CAN DO ANYTHING UNLESS YOU DECIDE TO BE MATURE SO WHY EVEN TRY IF YOU WONT.)

Okay. Fuck, did you expect me to get mad? To try and prove you wrong? No. I won't. If we aren't friends, I'm okay with that.

(I wish so bad that you didn't do so many stupid things).

Like smoke?

(Nah, that's okay with me. I figure that it's not the most dangerous thing I can do. I mean I wish you weren't selfish, I wish you didn't do so much for yourself, I wish you didn't call yourself fat, and I wish you never got depressed.)

Dude, I was always going to get depressed. Not only is it in my genes, but as long as I can remember, I've had issues. Those issues.. I don't have a name for them. Anxiety doesn't describe it all the way. Neither does bipolar. I'm just so sensitive it was always gonna end up this way.

(That doesn't mean it had to go so far. Doesn't mean it's an excuse).

Better sooner than later

(Is that so? Maybe if you weren't so young and idiotic, like you still are, you wouldn't have made those choice)

LOOK I DONT NEED A FIGHT. Let's hang out with my dog, pamper her, love her and clean the house.

I know what I've done. It's not something I'm proud of. I'm okay with it, though. I'm okay with not being able to fix it any more than I have already.

So leave me alone.

I like myself. I am nice. I try hard to be kind. I love the world. I love a lot of things. I am not numb, anymore. I seemed to have talked my way out of it. It hurts. It will go away. And I might never know why it was really here.



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