Close your eyes, dearest heart. I will take your hand and together we will go through your dreams. Dreams of blackness and nothingness, when your emotions become irrelevant and feelings long forgotten. Your cold cold heart will match the weather and rain of stars will glittered you existence in black reality of death. Take your pills, go on, my love. I’m your friend I would never have hurt you.
Piece of the soul has been ripped out of my sad excuse of a life. Because, after all it what it is; I live surrendered by excuses of pain and sadness. I’m in pain, I’m sad and I’m tired.
Tiredness of being alive and being able to breathe. I don’t want to be covered my scars, not anymore. But it is harder with every passing minute – the need to see blood, the need to feel its hot lines going down my body – I miss the sensation of feeling alive by making myself be in pain.
I need pain to understand that I can do it, that I can live.
I was sexually assaulted yesterday on the train. For a second time in my life. The man who stood behind me was so close that his groun area was directly on my upper thighs and bum. He was moving his hips, I could feel that he was tunred on and I frizzed. I could not move, only tears were going down my face.
I have had 5 showers since yesterday’s evening, I scrubbed my body and I still feel like it is not enough. I throw away jeans and underwear I had on yesterday, everything else is in the washing.
But I cannot shake off the feeling of still being so dirty, used and violated. When I close my eyes I can hear him moan. I can smell his breath and see his face. I remember how he turned around and smiled, how his his hand was on my hips and under my shirt. And I did nothing. I frizzed and couldn’t move. I lost my voice and thinking about it makes me so angry and so sick. I am crying and everything seems so much to deal with right now. When it happened for the first time i didn’t understand what sexual assault was, I didn’t know what happened. Years had passed and i understood, I promised myself that I would always react, that I would not be a victim again.
Oh god, but it happened again, and I have stayed quiet again, I did not move, I didn’t react, I frizzed and started crying, becoming a victim one more time.
I feel sick, tired and even more depressed than I was.
I’m on lorazepam right now, hardly dealing with reality. I cut myself again, I have not left my bed and spoken to anybody. I’m terrified of going on the tube again, I’m scared of leaving my flat, I am scared of falling asleep. I am embarrassed and my mind pulls trick on me. I don’t know what to do but I want to close my eyes and never open them again.
My wrist is still bruised and I’m going to have an ugly looking scar that everyone will be able to see. I hardly ever cut in places that are visible to others but that night, almost two weeks ago, something had snapped in me. I took a raizor and cut through the skin so deeply that I couldn’t stop the bleeding for quite some time.
Since that time I only cut twice, which frankly is an achievement for someone who has been self harming for last 8 years. That’s how long I’ve been in a state of deprivation of my own mind. Lose ends of thoughts, lullabies of death and dreams of blood.
But today has been hard. I’m tired, in pain, lost and irritable around people. They annoy me, I already know that as soon as I will get into shower, the blood will be running down my right thigh and I will be cutting through old scars that prevent me from wearing shorts and make me embarrassed in front of my sexual partners. I know that I will feel the most amazing bliss and orgasmic like sensations for few – very short I may add – moments and then I will break down and instead of blood, salty tears will go down my face. The silent scream, the one that everybody is so afraid of – because it’s so much more scarier and ‘lonely like’ feeling. I will break down, I will go on about my life. I will go downstairs and smoke cigarette in the rain, then I will place colourful pills on my tongue and swallow them carefully with a sip of water.
I have thought about killing myself for far too many times today. I have imagined how I slit my wrists open, how I will cry and beg. I have imagined swallowing whole bottel of my sleeping pills and lorazepam. I have thought about my own selfish pain and broken mind. Of darkness of the world, clouds and starts that would have accompanied me with the journey to nothingness. I have thought and dreamt and imagined.
I self harm a lot. That’s the truth – the reality of my sad existence and mental illness. I pull my hair out to the point where I have bold patches, I snap rubber band so many times a day that the skin on my wrist is bruised and has different texture, I cut my thighs, my shoulders and my wrists. I cut to the point where blood goes down my hand and it’s hard to stop the bleeding, I cut to the point where I need stitches and dressing on my wounds, I cut to the point where the pain is so terrible that I am shaking in the shower and want to be sick. Then I tell lies that I cut my wrist on the knife at work, that I fall over and my arm is scratched. Lies, lies, lies – my life is a constant lie to everyone around me. Because after all I’ve always been that bubbly, smiling, nerdy little person who preferred books than reality.
People don’t realise how nasty mental illness can get. They often think that’s sadness it’s all it is – how wrong they are. It’s hardly ever mentioned that taking care of yourself can get awfully ugly; crying yourself to sleep, hurting yourself, screaming – all those terrible terrible things that people don’t want to talk about.
I’m twenty, in case someone’s wondering, I’ve been struggling with depression for last 8 long years, I’m on four different medications and I still feel like I’m going crazy in the evenings. I used to, at that time, drink and get completely fucked on weed. It was so easy to get lost in them, so blissful to forget about sickening reality. It’s been, now, four weeks since I got high and drunk.
I’m wrapping my wrist in a bandage again. The cut is reaopening all the fucking time.
Twinkle twinkle little pill it’s time for you to make your will.
I don’t like being defined by my mental illness and its stigmas. After all I’m just normal human being with illness in their mind – nothing to be ashamed of, people say. When I mention that I’ve got problems with my heart and I’ve been taking medications for last 10 years, I’m being told that maybe I should go and check with another doctor because it’s not getting better – and then I say I suffer from depression, anxiety, personal disorder and PTSD and I’m met with silence or questions such as “why are you so depressed”. I’ve always found this funny how people react to my illnesses.
Most of the time nobody can tell that something may be wrong with me. Im smiling a lot, I talk to people at work, I’m liked, kind and cute – as they say, I also wear a lot of glitter but that’s the story for another day – but when I’m alone, in the silence of my thoughts and solitiude of my mind, I feel that intense – and insane – sadness, anger, damage, loneliness. I hardly sleep without medications, only now I actually feel things and emotions – my whole life depends on medications and yet they also can kill me, so easily. It’s rather amusing, I find, that in my bedside table there are medications that help me cope with life and yet can finish me if taken in bigger dose. How very ironic, isn’t it?
I accepted my sadness. I accepted myself. But I have hard time accepting how many people left me because of it.
I used to have a way with words. I used to play them like the most beautiful Stradivarius; they have had a hidden melody and depth. Now? Now I hardly recognise the person who looks at me back in the mirror. Who is the person in the reflection who doesn’t smile and whose eyes became ice blue?
It’s hard to get to used to the thought and reality of knowing that one is mentally ill. It’s so much harder than accepting physical illness. Both requires of me to take medications, both of them make my life miserable and they leave broken paths. Heart and mind – how ironic! My lost mind breaks my already ill heart.
I could have written all about how hard it is to deal with the stigmas of mental illness and get through it, but instead I’m going to write down my mind – because that’s something I have never truly been able to understand, since I was a little girl.
But if you are reading it, stranger, know that you will get there one day you will look at your scars and remember that you indeed have gone through it even if right now – like me – your wrist has to be wrapped in a bandage because your cuts were too deep and too dangerous..
I’m falling asleep; my sleeping pills and antidepressants are my new aesthetics – they are the pink-est things I own.