After everything I had to go through, I have more than earned my right to be bitter, so back the fuck off
Not going to the gynaecologist to find out whether I have breast cancer or not, because if it is, I can still play dumb and have a way outta this life.
(Or free breast surgery, because I’ll never be able to afford it otherwise.).
Death just seems like such a nice option.
What does it matter if I’m alive? I’m just another mouth to feed, I’m annoying - I’ve been told so, I’m horrible with social interactions, I can’t keep friends.
Why am I not allowed to hurt myself?
It helps me. It makes me feel better, alive for once. And it’s my body. Why am I not allowed to do with it as I please? I know it’s not healthy. Who said I want to be healthy?
I’m alone. So utterly alone. I know my brother cares, but I still fell so alone. I never feel not alone.
I really don’t think I can do this anymore… I haven’t self harmed in years but lately it’s all I can think about. Running the blade across my wrists and watching the red liquid as it seeps out. The feeling of relief, the feeling of anything but the hallow sadness within me. It feels as if the all the evil and pain I keep inside are seeping out with it. I just want this to end and there’s only one way I know how it can… I just don’t know if I’m capable of doing it.
I’d ask what terfs think of Leelah Alcorn, but I feel like the answer would be enough to make me throw up, to be completely honest.
Root Kakashi Au needs more Itachi so:
Itachi seeing Kakashi after his fight with Shisui. Going to the foundation after Shisui has spoken to him and jumped into the Naka to his death
visiting a man he was so angry towards for Obito’s death. The senseless murder of another Uchiha, and sneaking his way past the guards to stand by Kakashi’s side
Looking at the hound he worked so much with and finally seeing what Shisui had seen during their fight. Even in his sleep, and possibly only in his sleep when his guards were completly down, the hound looked broken.
A lost man who had given up long ago on life
For the first time since Itachi had heard what Shisui had said about the man, he could belive it. He could inagin the Hound stabding there, trying to look like he was fightin with all his strength while looking at Shisui with eyes the begged him to put an end to his life.
why am i making life harder for myself by trying to stay clean, it doesnt matter if i cut once more, all it will do is alleviate the mental torment im in right now, i need this so badly
i can’t help but think that if i killed myself earlier, i wouldn’t be having to deal with the pain and agony of a pandemic
I’m so tired
This spiral is tainted. I am waiting for that closing straw — the instant where everything exposes its’ malicious intention and blows up in my face. I hope it takes my skin with it, singes my corneas — leaves me deaf.
I can’t begin to understand why when I think back on the last few months, it has been full of catastrophe, but I am still in a trance. Hell, my knuckle is goddamn broken. Fuck — I have relapsed back into everything I left with the rotten corpses of my past.
I now weigh 95 pounds. 95 pounds of utter regret and scarce calories away from death. My hair falls from my scalp in the shower. Sometimes, when I look at myself in the mirror, I cannot recognize them. Something inside me has the main component of my consciousness frozen in time.
I am not acting on autopilot as something else has locked me out from the cockpit.
I don’t know if I really see what I’m seeing or hear what I’m hearing. I wonder every day if it is all an illusion, a state of being I made up in my dreams when things had gotten too much this summer. Sometimes I wake up thinking old friends are still my friends and new friends are a long-forgotten fantasy. Sometimes, I wake up and open the wrong messages, check for names that I couldn’t find now even if I wanted to.
I know he is dead, but I speak to him like he is in my immediate vicinity, occupying my space and taking up air. My heart hurts when I think about it. Mortality. This year feels like the drain for it — picking up all the debris on the way under — discarding of the bodies.
How many more will go? Will one be me?
Lately, there is a blurry film over my vision. My doctor says that’s just a level of dissociation, maybe a dose of derealization. Maybe I’m just tired. My doctor says I have ADHD. My doctor says I have OCD. My doctor says Anorexia Nervosa. My doctor says PTSD. Psychosis. Delusions. Hallucinations. Hypersexuality. Anxiety and depression feel like long dead soldiers, left at the shoreline as I trudge uphill with all of these diagnosis’s in my knapsack, each one written on a plaque rather than paper, weighing me down.
Check the scale? I am 195 pounds now.
The last time I had a needle in my arm I said I would never do it again. And then it happened again, and I cried for a really long time when I came down. You held my hand, didn’t you? You held my hand and hell, if I’m not here, I could easily be with you. Next to you.
This body isn’t mine. My face is a black hole and when I cry it is a waterfall, a sap forcing water from the metal. When I cough it’s an explosion. My ears burn when I laugh.
Your eyes light up when I smile. Your hair smells like vanilla and your mind is sharp, if not a little fragile. If not a little naïve — carelessly influenced like that of a new adult unsure how to separate opinion from respect and heart from education. I think that I would hold your hand for a long time, too.
I don’t think you would mind.
I am the person I am now and the person I was before. Nothing has changed but everything has intersected, crossed paths in the way a thought merges with an idea — a fact. I am sorry if we collided as I circled back to me. I am sorry for looking after me and I am sorry I didn’t look after anyone else. I mean it. I’m not being condescending, because I am sorry.
I’m so fucking sorry all the time.
When your teachers have high expectations of you, but you’re too stupid and you let everyone down