Anything is better than to be alone...

My mind has completely left me, I fear. I feel nothing except a foul-smelling panic that floats above my nostrils and below, stinking and suffocating me until I choke upon it. I know, now, why Sylvia Plath put her head in an oven. If she felt even a small bit of what I am feeling currently then she would know how horrid this existence is. I sliced my arm open last night. Oh, both legs also. I am slash ridden monster. I feel as though nothing is real and I am merely watching the world float by me. It is as though I have been cocooned within a marble globe that wraps itself around me, pulling me away into nothingness. I long for a bed. One that I never have to get out of again. I crave sleep. I am gulping it in hour long increments that are still never enough. I would head to the psychiatric hospital again, if only for the nice, long rest. I just need a break. A few golden days spent sleeping soundly would have me right as rain, I believe.

I am so very numb. So faithless. So hopeless. I feel nothing. My mind has vacated the vicinity of sanity. I keep thinking that if I could only close my eyes tightly enough, that the visions of the dead would go away. Last night was a bad night. I cant hold onto me, anymore. I will be so thankful once finals are over. I have lost it. I have completely lost it. Once finals are over, I may very well check myself into Wishard. Nobody needs to know where I am. It's been almost 3 years since my last psychotic snap. I believe I have done very well. My mother thinks the devil is out for me. I know he is. It seems as though everything that can go wrong to stress me out here of late, has. I feel like a failure. I feel like a fat pig. I feel like a flop. I am lost. I am depressed. I am suicidal. I am dead inside. I am just dead. Once the blanket is done drying, I can go to sleep! YAY! I need to sleep, I am exhausted! UGH! First final of the week tomorrow. It's Art Appreciation. I must do good at this. I must do perfectly. I can't let my mask crumble completely just yet. I just have to keep this up for a little while longer. Goodnight everyone.

Human Graveyard

Secrets,
Buried so deeply beneath my veins,
Like cadavers in a riverbed,
Stinking and swelling,
Rotting and bloated,
Memories of ugly things long since passed,

With each new memory of pain,
I dig it a grave in my flesh,
Carving open a hole with a sterling shovel,
Where I place it,
Deep enough to never find again,
The scar, meaning it's forgotten,

Condemning eyes graze my skin so slowly,
Memorizing every well placed grave,
As though my cemetery is not beautiful,
I curiously wonder if many people have these graves,
If so, where do they hide them?
For they have no outer scars like me,

They smile, knowingly,
Yet they will never know,
Ever,
Only others with similar graves could ever understand,
What it is like to have to bury every memory of pain,
That the world vomited up on you,

I smile,
Somewhat regretfully,
As the morning sun glimmers upon freshly dug graves,
New memories that have been buried,
Along with the other corpses,
That lay,
So rotting beneath my skin...

Whiskey Lullabye

The past few weeks have been interesting to say the least. I'm still suffering in the aftermath of a less than decent breakup with someone. It wasn't the breakup that was so horrible, it was being left two weeks before my birthday and then being told "I want to be friends" yet, we barely speak. What else did I expect, though? You deal with someone's issues, and spend four and five hours at night, quite a few nights, trying to help someone sift through the garbage of their soul and you eventually turn into that garbage I suppose. That is exactly how I feel. Discarded, like trash.
I find myself crawling deep within myself, and at night, into my bed with nothing more than my pain and a bottle of whiskey. My bottle is my new best friend. I'm lonely. Sickeningly so. I seem to be unable to even attain the level of friend with this person. I'm merely a booty call nowadays. I'll never understand the workings of the male mind. Or at least not Dave's. How you can go from being told "I love you" & "I think we should start doing things with each other's families" in December to "I need my space" & "the relationship is just too stressful" in January...I will never know. I guess I'm still reeling from the shock. Everything happened so fast. Slowly, and then all at once, like madness. My heart is still broken. Every time he looks at me and I see that familiar nothingness in his eyes, another little piece of me cracks.
I did everything I could to save it. It obviously wasn't enough. Part of me thinks he's still mad at me about fucking Matt. At that point, he wouldn't even speak to me, so I guess I was at a loss as to what else to do to get his attention. It doesn't excuse it, but I figured that if it was all falling apart and he obviously hated me anyways, I might as well get some affection while I could. I'll never forgive myself for it. I'll carry the guilt to the grave. It just seems like I've lost a lot of people in the last few months. Eventually, I am certain I will be entirely alone again. This time I am prepared to combat this sorrow with whiskey. If I dont feel, I wont fall apart.
I finally had to admit to myself the other day that I was still broken-hearted. It is as though this was carefully orchestrated over a couple months, just to make me hurt. If it was, then I must give him props, because it worked beautifully. I notice these days when he talks to his other friends, he's more affectionate to them than he ever was to me. Period. Then, finally, today it hit me. I was right all along. He never really liked me much. I don't think he ever really wanted a relationship. I think he wanted a quick fuck. Mostly I think this, because that's all he wants nowadays. Bar hopping for a couple hours, some live music, and then my drunken ass naked for him to fuck and cum quickly in.
I feel naked inside. It's always like this after relationships for me, though. Stripped. Bare. Raw. Like someone has torn apart the flesh of me once again, carelessly, scrambled my insides, and then ground up my heart into a fine powdery dust. Then they handed it back to me and said "Put this back together"....as if it were possible.
I can't put it back together, damnit. I can't fix it and make it pretty again. I can drink this bottle of whiskey next to me, which is exactly what I'm going to do tonight. I'm going to drink this shit straight out of the bottle, fuck coke and ice. I want to feel the burn, and then, I want to feel numb. I wonder when I will figure out why I am always the one who gives everything she has in a relationship, only to be used up, and left with the loser's hand. Fuck this shit. I'm going to go drink the rest of my whiskey now. I hate love. I hate everything to do with it. I'm sick of this shit.

The Power of Dying

The deeper into winter we go the sicker I begin to feel. Small things at first, beginning in late August. Mental blips that have turned into full on manifestations of craziness are beginning to worry me. Seeing things that I know can't be there. Hearing things that I know aren't even of this world. It's all turning into a whirlwind that I'm paranoid is going to whip me up and throw me far away from the progress I've made. I've nearly made it to my 2 year mark. On November 5Th 2009 it will be 2 years since I have been in the Mental Hospital. I never really expected myself to make it two years almost. Not as sick as I was. I fully expected to be dead at the end of 2007. Death by sorrow.

Internal sorrow - one that never let's you sleep. Never lets you breathe. Never lets you hear anything other than the demons in the darkness reminding you of your flaws and failures. How you hate yourself and everyone around you must hate you as well. How you try and smile so they never know but inside you're burning with a pain so great that it threatens to consume you entirely.

I've had death on my mind lately. I suppose it's because I hate myself and wish I were dead. (Please don't confuse me with an Emo. Depression is not a fashion trend.) I feel vacant even though I know I should feel somewhat full inside. I have beautiful nephews who think I'm their mother. Grandparents who love me. Friends who care about me and a lover that I'm crazy about. But I can't shake this feeling of just wanting to quit. Just wanting everything to stop spinning. Just wanting to sleep forever. I'm grappling at material things because I can't grasp anything else. Trying desperately to fill the void in my soul that just won't close back up. It's as if someone took a jagged razor and tore a cavern through the middle of my soul and nobody ever cared enough to stitch it back up. I can't seem to get myself sewn back together. No matter what I do. My newest attempt is about to be going back into therapy.

But I digress. Suicide...it's my anti-drug so to speak. A malevolent being that dreams of its own demise. That's what I am. I have become enveloped with plotting my own destruction again. It's wrapped my thoughts up and is holding them for ransom. Payment being my life. Only then will the internal harassment cease. What a price to pay for peace of mind...

I dream of cutting myself up into a million tiny pieces.
I dream of hanging myself up high in tree branches for everyone to see.
I dream of taking a million of those pretty pills I so love. How I would love my drugs right now.
I dream of slitting my wrists wide open and letting my veins pour out my lifeblood.
I dream of walking into a river and never coming back up for air.
I dream of sitting in a garage with a car running to asphyxiate myself.
I dream of blowing my brains all over the walls.
I dream of swimming in an ice cold lake until my lips turn blue from hypothermia.
I dream of driving a knife through my heart.
I dream of the day that my breathing stops and I feel no more...and I bleed no more....and I won't hurt again.

That's why dying was so magnificent. For a moment in time - the pain simply stopped. I didn't hurt. The hole in my soul wasn't aching. My mind wasn't thinking. It didn't hurt when I was breathing because I wasn't breathing. I wasn't breathing and it was beautiful.

I just want to die.

Self Injury Quotes

How will you know if I am hurting if you can't see my pain? To wear it on my body tells what words cannot explain.

I can't stop thinking about cutting myself up. Visual bruises can be covered with makeup. But down to the core I'm all bruises.

Tell me that you don't take that blade and drag it across your skin and pray for the courage to press down?

A decade of cutting away dead flesh, cauterizing old scars ripped open over and over and it's still not enough.

The drops of blood are substitute for the tears I cannot cry.

Have you ever had that feeling? That itch just below the skin that only a razor blade can scratch?

Have you ever had the need to slit your wrists? To let all feelings of guilt and depression bleed out and then sew yourself up again to be happy?

When everything feels like the movies, you bleed just to know you're alive.

I am forever staring at the tender blue veins along the inside of my wrist. Tiny and fragile twigs trapped under ice.

I wrote a little poem. A poem with a twist. I wrote it with a razor blade. Wrote it on my wrist.

Self-Destruction feeds on Self-Hatred.

Such beautiful dignity is self-abuse.

Pink ribbon scars that never forget. Tried to cleanse myself from all these regrets.

I'm a little bit of loneliness. A little bit of disregard. A handful of complaints but I can't help the fact that everyone can see these scars.

We couldn't imagine the emptiness of a creature that took a razor to her wrists and opened her veins. The emptiness and the calm.

Mad About Red

My insides are screaming at me from a deeper place. With a more primal need than the rest. My demon. My beautiful demons of pain. A pain so rough, a pain so tough, that I cannot say anything at the end of this love affair with the blade except, "I am alive." Dripping, dropping, sploshing, splashing little pools of red. That seep from my veins at night. My very own lifeblood. Collecting like fog upon the floor. My own little ocean of sanity. Oh, but I cannot have my little pools of sanity. Not anymore. Wicked health has supposedly sunk deeply into my bones and "cured me" of my sinful ways. My madness. My malice. My anger. My past. The pills didn't fill me up to make me well. The doctor couldn't dissect my thoughts good enough to tell me what was wrong. My eating disorder couldn't make me beautiful. My addictions couldn't cure me. But this addiction - oh it's so sweet. When it begins to burn so beautifully at the core of my brain. At the base, eating my stem alive, infecting me with it's potent venom. Like a spider bite from a brown recluse. Infection is sure to follow and then the putrefaction and mushiness of dying flesh. My sanity - dying more and more and more. But God it's so beautiful. Purple sky. Cotton dreams. Lost. Oh so lost. Like a hit from a candy colored cocktail of pills. Drowning me in it's silky smooth grasp. Just one cut. One deeply placed slice. I just need one. But then again, maybe two....hell let's make it a hundred! Cut and saw away my arms and legs and soul. Just carve it out because I don't need it anymore. Bleed from me you ugly wasteland of things I find despicable. I hate you. I hate you more than I hate myself. But wait - you are myself. Ha ha! Damn hormones have made me a little cuckoo tonight. PMS - such a bitch! Hahahaha!!!

Madness and Methodist

Perched upon your ebony throne,
Drowning out the great alone,
That bled itself into your brain,
Reminding you that you're insane,
Dripped from lips and eyes and tongues,
That made you realize you'd become undone,
Within a hell of white-hot pain,
That burned you ugly and never the same,
The little girl inside your mind,
That smiles on the outside but cries all the time,
Finally spliced the last red nerve of sane,
Sucked it pale like a candy cane,
And splintered again into bits on the floor,
Marbles rolling away to be found nevermore,
Until the little man in a white cap and gown,
Drug you away to the place in town,
Where you get your own room with pillows for walls,
And you can run screaming down through the halls,
Until they get tired of your babbling mouth,
Give you some drugs to put you right out,
Isn't it fun here in Methodist land?
Where we can run screaming like children again,
And it's summertime forever here in our minds,
Where the darkness never creeps and sorrow never binds,
Who am I kidding this place is absurd!
Needles prick and white lights burn,
Doctors and demons wake you up in the dark,
Or the schizo next door screaming like a lark,
Your neighbor will rape you and therapist tell you to die,
From suicide you fool, go back out again and this time...really try!!
Ah yes it's so lovely here in this place,
With the crazies and weirdos you'll feel perfectly in place,
So come on down to the Methodist hotel,
And awaken to find yourself really in hell