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Read at your own risk,
Posted October 26th 2009 at 05:59 AM by ThoughtManifest
Do I really need to tell you this is triggering? Or can you figure that out on your own? That's what I thought.
Hurt myself again today, got the little safety pins out and scratched my skin red. I could see the blood poking out of my skin. They were longer this time, three times as long to be exact. Red and raised and angry. So angry. My mother and I have been having communication issues and she blew up at me (I most likely blew up at her in turn, it's not all her fault) so I went to take a shower just to get away from it all. I sat down with my kit, the last alcohol swab in my hand, and waited before I started this time.
Thinking. Thinking. Why was I doing this? Why today? Why this pin? Why these lines? My own lines of red, not white, to stare at. Was it even necessary? Was I really that weak? That stupid? So insignificant that hurting myself is my last option? Pills crossed my mind again, pills. How many are in this house. How many would it take. How many would it take? Why am I still here? What is the point?
My sisters I say, my sisters, don't forget them, my sisters, so important to me, so important, always there, crying if I were to go, crying if they were to know, always there, have to remember them. And they keep me alive so many miles away, hiding in my mind with the chords of songs from long ago, Keane, Radiohead, System, the list goes on and on. And their words keep me alive, keep me breathing and living, for what? For nothing. Living for the sake of living, despite how painful, how confusing, how strange it all is.
I think about my angry lines and wonder, what if my parents knew what I think every hour? When they yell, frustrated, at each other, at me? And for what? What in this world is so upsetting that we are always angry? I will never know. Where does this bitterness come from? Why do I hurt myself because of it? The most simplest of questions left with no answers. And it will never find an answer. I knowingly ruin my life, to keep it from ruin. How does that make sense?
I so desperately want to tell someone, to just let them hear what my life is like inside of my head, all alone. There's no one left here that aren't echoes anymore. People of flesh and bone have long left me, so long that I have started talking to people who don't exist. Figments derived from my own imagination, soon to be breathing in words wrought from my hands. I ask them, why are you alive? And they answer, calmly, slowly, all of their shortcomings, all of their hopes, all of their terrors, that makes them real, but never truly answer the question.
There is no answer for them, for me. Will there ever be? I'm wont to believe that this is the one question always unanswered, no matter who I ask. And if I ask my therapist, her answer will be a call to my parents, then they will call my sisters, and they will cry, cry, cry, pull me out of school, keep me at home with them, their broken daughter, stop me from flying out to the east and my makeshift home there on a waiting campus. Tell me, why am I such a failure when I have been so successful at everything typical?
Such a failure, such a waste, no point to me, never will be, does that mean I should leave? Just get away from here? No, because I'm too much of a failure to do that even. One more year before complete privacy for me, give me privacy, one more year before I can tell someone, anyone, what it has been like to live with myself all these years. 17 doesn't seem like a lot until you look back on it all, all of the pain waiting for your backwards eyes to see. Hello pain, hello disaster, when will you meet me next? Or maybe I should meet you next time.
Then one day, I can see it now, I will look back on this section of the internet, tucked away just for me, and cry at my broken thoughts neatly separated by commas and periods, wrapped in half-perfect syntax and less perfect diction. Wonder what my sister would say if she could analyze this. Maybe it could be her award-winning piece. I doubt it.
Now I'm plotting how to steal my next bit of alcohol swabs to feed this monster inside. I'll need to find a way, and soon, some kind of stash that I can keep for awhile. Maybe I can get some from the school nurse? Oh, I'm sorry nurse, I seem to have hurt myself, could you lend me some swabs? Seems unlikely. I'll find a way. Rest assured, I will find a way. It's about time my wit served a useful purpose.
Now leave me alone while I type away at my novel, a worthless piece of writing as miserable as me. I wonder if my english teacher will be smart enough to read between the lines, bold enough to say anything, courageous enough to read on. Time will only tell.
Until next time, monster.
Hurt myself again today, got the little safety pins out and scratched my skin red. I could see the blood poking out of my skin. They were longer this time, three times as long to be exact. Red and raised and angry. So angry. My mother and I have been having communication issues and she blew up at me (I most likely blew up at her in turn, it's not all her fault) so I went to take a shower just to get away from it all. I sat down with my kit, the last alcohol swab in my hand, and waited before I started this time.
Thinking. Thinking. Why was I doing this? Why today? Why this pin? Why these lines? My own lines of red, not white, to stare at. Was it even necessary? Was I really that weak? That stupid? So insignificant that hurting myself is my last option? Pills crossed my mind again, pills. How many are in this house. How many would it take. How many would it take? Why am I still here? What is the point?
My sisters I say, my sisters, don't forget them, my sisters, so important to me, so important, always there, crying if I were to go, crying if they were to know, always there, have to remember them. And they keep me alive so many miles away, hiding in my mind with the chords of songs from long ago, Keane, Radiohead, System, the list goes on and on. And their words keep me alive, keep me breathing and living, for what? For nothing. Living for the sake of living, despite how painful, how confusing, how strange it all is.
I think about my angry lines and wonder, what if my parents knew what I think every hour? When they yell, frustrated, at each other, at me? And for what? What in this world is so upsetting that we are always angry? I will never know. Where does this bitterness come from? Why do I hurt myself because of it? The most simplest of questions left with no answers. And it will never find an answer. I knowingly ruin my life, to keep it from ruin. How does that make sense?
I so desperately want to tell someone, to just let them hear what my life is like inside of my head, all alone. There's no one left here that aren't echoes anymore. People of flesh and bone have long left me, so long that I have started talking to people who don't exist. Figments derived from my own imagination, soon to be breathing in words wrought from my hands. I ask them, why are you alive? And they answer, calmly, slowly, all of their shortcomings, all of their hopes, all of their terrors, that makes them real, but never truly answer the question.
There is no answer for them, for me. Will there ever be? I'm wont to believe that this is the one question always unanswered, no matter who I ask. And if I ask my therapist, her answer will be a call to my parents, then they will call my sisters, and they will cry, cry, cry, pull me out of school, keep me at home with them, their broken daughter, stop me from flying out to the east and my makeshift home there on a waiting campus. Tell me, why am I such a failure when I have been so successful at everything typical?
Such a failure, such a waste, no point to me, never will be, does that mean I should leave? Just get away from here? No, because I'm too much of a failure to do that even. One more year before complete privacy for me, give me privacy, one more year before I can tell someone, anyone, what it has been like to live with myself all these years. 17 doesn't seem like a lot until you look back on it all, all of the pain waiting for your backwards eyes to see. Hello pain, hello disaster, when will you meet me next? Or maybe I should meet you next time.
Then one day, I can see it now, I will look back on this section of the internet, tucked away just for me, and cry at my broken thoughts neatly separated by commas and periods, wrapped in half-perfect syntax and less perfect diction. Wonder what my sister would say if she could analyze this. Maybe it could be her award-winning piece. I doubt it.
Now I'm plotting how to steal my next bit of alcohol swabs to feed this monster inside. I'll need to find a way, and soon, some kind of stash that I can keep for awhile. Maybe I can get some from the school nurse? Oh, I'm sorry nurse, I seem to have hurt myself, could you lend me some swabs? Seems unlikely. I'll find a way. Rest assured, I will find a way. It's about time my wit served a useful purpose.
Now leave me alone while I type away at my novel, a worthless piece of writing as miserable as me. I wonder if my english teacher will be smart enough to read between the lines, bold enough to say anything, courageous enough to read on. Time will only tell.
Until next time, monster.
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