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

Blah! ! !

You are as predictable as a box. At times I thump you and there is no sound. You're filled to the brim with ideas and creations that have yet to be constructed. You can't hear me through your inner madness that drips like slime from your tear ducts. I scream at you to hear me, but like a pizza man at a loud party, you can't hear me clearly enough to answer the damn door and see what I have to offer. You're lost inside of yourself, as always, unable to see the fact that an entire world revolves around you. If only you would come out of your head, hermit. You'd see that there are things out here worth having. I don't think you'll come out, though. I think you're locked away forever. In the construction paper, crayola crayon fantasy world you slapped together when everything else fell apart in your life.


However...


At other times I thump on you and the only thing that I can hear is this large, overwhelming void that has absolutely nothing in it except for yourself. And for all of the silence that you endure, it would seem as though you still can't hear me. There is never any answer to my knock, knock, knocking on heaven's door. The party is over. The guests in your head have all gone home. But I'm still outside in the rain, screaming at you as loudly as I can and you don't even look up. You're at some great divide within your soul, I'm sure. There, with Kurt Cobain and Virginia Woolf to keep you company, right?

Your books and your television and your fish and your cat. But where the hell am I supposed to be? You are either so full or so empty that there isn't any room in your life for me to fit. Not properly at least. I belong to no one. I belong to a great empty nothing. You belong to your "things"... I belong to absolutely nothing. I don't fit into your head. I don't fit into your life. I sure as the hell don't fit into your heart... So if you can't stand to touch me, and can't stand to be less than three feet from me, what in the bloody hell am I to you? I attempt to cuddle and kiss you like normal girlfriends, but God no! Heaven forbid that lasts more than five minutes, right? Six minutes would be torture and ten would be certain death. What am I??? Your chauffeur? Your buddy? Your pal? Your non-biological daughter. You do so love to parent me at times. What am I? Where am I? You seemed "so into me" in the beginning. Your words, not mine. But as my Mother reminded me, that is SUCH a cop out response to everything. So maybe you just wanted me around to fuck so you could break your year and a half abstinence, eh? Using me like everyone else? Oh I simply can't wait to muse over you later. At least I can forget about Bryan now, though. At least I got that much out of this.


I'm sure tomorrow will bring a sense of normalcy. You'll be your chipper dipper old self. Chirp about some hell awful printer or television show until I'm screaming internally, wishing for once that you'd stop acting like some God forsaken hippie who's smoked pot all day and eaten Cheetos and watched Scooby Doo. Wishing your TVs would break and your computer would die. So you would HAVE to pay attention to me. But you still wouldn't. Your books would suddenly become the most important thing in the UNIVERSE! You'd rush madly towards them, like lost lovers of yours, devour them, page by page until paper ribbons are coming out of your anus. You'd suck the very marrow out of everything, everything except me.

You said you enjoyed "complex people" and that's why you liked me. I was complex. Or so you implied. I think you really enjoy complex people because we're stupid in your mind. We're easy to coerce into bed after five days of meeting and easy to keep around to drive you places. So easy to use and throw away. Maybe that's what really happened with your "lost love"...she was so much like you that she grew tired of you instead of the typical reverse and went out in search of something more....complicated? ;]

Ah well - my maddened rantings have worn me out.

Cheers!

Into a cold blue morning your blade crashes,
Driven deep into the fabric of the sky,
Splitting it's satiny sheen in half and letting me see things I never wanted to,
Leaving me to search again in your eyes for truths,
Truths of affection that simply don't exist,

The once decadent milk-chocolate lust that eminated from your eyes,
Is now nothing more than a dark chocolate hate,
Bubbling and burning in toxic acidity,
Beneath the surface of your epidermis,
As cold to the touch as your heart,

I poise myself upon the sofa, waiting for you to come back from your internal wars,
Dredging up the ghosts of the closet that's been locked for so long,
That the deadbolt has rusted and broken off,
Praying to God that for once, just once,
You could gaze upon me as if you still liked me again,

But, alas, you do not,
And I wait in the foyer of your world,
Like the patient in the Doctor's office,
Hoping soon to hear the call of her name,
Signaling her chance to be seen,

White Hot Razor Blade

Diamond rain falls from her eyes in sharp little pieces,
That burst and break upon the wood floors,
That echo the quick "click-click" of her patent leather heels,
Reminding the ghosts that they are never alone,
And herself that she always is,

Trickling down it splashes upon her fingertips of white,
Ivory flesh that masques her brittle bones so well,
Confusing the world into some hallucination of her beauty,
A lie of make-believe that she is more lovely than the rest,
The worst lie of all,

Her ebony hair falls down her back limply,
Shining from a health that somehow forgot to bleed itself,
Deep into the dark recesses of her brain,
Where the infection of madness took up residence and broke her,
Drove the sanity from her eyes and lips and hair and lungs,

The tears continue to fall and days to pass,
Until finally her tears are falling into a hot bath filled with a million more,
Where her ivory skin is burned red,
From the steaming tears and water,
And the razor blade that split the veins below,