Harm

I get that weird feeling sometimes, or more like an instinct of sorts. That I want to destroy things that I love, or things that others love. And then I ask myself, why the hell would I want to do that? It's a horrible feeling really. But I don't think it's rare. I think a lot of people have felt the same way, though I don't quite understand why. But I do, on some level. As when I before cut my face, to destroy something that I liked, my face. Like the only part of my body that I don't hate.

If you look really really close you can still see the scar, but it blends in with the scars from my acne. I hate that. I don't want it to blend in, I want it to stand out. I just didn't fucking cut deep enough. Afraid to do too much damage. Always when I cut I was afraid to press down. I hated myself for my lack of courage which led me to cut even more. Pathetic, isn't it?

And still I want to cut. I want it almost every day. When I look down on my scarred arms and it triggers me to create more scars. To fill in the blanks. Go deeper than ever, press down harder. But I'm always so afraid of messing things up, and mostly I'm afraid of nerve damage.

It's my hands, you see. I don't want to risk losing sensation or mobility in them, so when I did self harm, it was only superficial, like scratches almost. Though I hated it when other people said it was scratches. I used a fucking blade, not my finger nails. I felt bad, like I failed and didn't cut deep enough for it to count.

I know that is just sad, but it's the truth. It's not uncommon for self harmers to compare wounds/scars and it can become a dangerous competition. To diminish my self harm wounds made me want to harm myself even more. I didn't do it right, I couldn't do it right, so I just did more instead. Maybe I could "win" with the most scars instead of the biggest?

I know it's wrong of me to think that way, and I'm not saying I'm proud of it. But that has been and is on my mind. That I'm a failure to self harm as with much else. I never understood that the only failure was my eagerness in getting worse instead of better. How can I not see that scratches are way better than deep lacerations?

I'm gonna try to stay "clean" over the summer at least, but from then on I don't know. The cravings have been extra strong this last week, and I suppose I've come across more triggers as well. Everything from reading about it (though I avoid such websites) to seeing a gif of someone playing with a scalpel.

Okay, this entry is becoming very long now. What do I even want to say? That I'm fighting to not fall back again, and now I seriously start to wonder for how long I can abstain from it. I can't even remember how my body looked like without the scars. If or when I start again I'll probably hide it, ashamed to have given in for it again.

Bargain

A part of me now believes that I sold my soul to the devil for a nice body and luck in love. The down side would be that I will only live for a few more years, and then I will inevitably kill myself. I accepted that (though it took some time), but it wasn't until recently that I added one plus one, so to say.

Things have gone remarkably well lately, and always when I pray to Satan he fulfils my wishes. But to what price? That's why I didn't understand it before. When I signed that contract in my own blood, things started to change.

Have I not watched Ghost Rider?! Yes, I have and a gazillion other movies that depicts just how much of a bad idea it is to sign contracts with your own blood. Stupid fuck!

I don't know what will happen after I die because of this, but I think I only sold a part of my soul, not the entire kit. I don't even carry around all of my soul. Some of it is somewhere else, and incommunicado, you know.

I couldn't just let myself get ravaged by misery until I break and kill myself because my whole life just became a horrible mistake. I'd rather be satisfied for just two years and then kill myself because I know that my time is up. Leave this world feeling that at least I had something in the end. It's worth it, damn it's worth it.

I realise that for the bargain to work I still have to pray and work my ass off to achieve what I want for the rest of my life. Then what's the point? You might ask. The point is that I will be able to reach my goals without failing. It won't be and it isn't a fairytale magic thing. Satan can't make my scars after the surgery to heal miraculously over night, for example, but what he can do is to make sure that it heals well and without complications. (If that doesn't happen we're gonna have a little chat)

The bargain is about changing two major parts of my life for the better. The trans related stuff, and mostly my dysphoria. My body, in simplicity. Then it's also about my love, K, and my feelings for him. And that's why I still get depressions, nightmares, phobias, sleep- and eating problems and such. Cause that isn't a part of the bargain.

It is much, since my life literally depends on those two things. I can get by with bad habits (especially since I'm not gonna live so much longer) and most of my problems can be helped or fixed with medication and psychotherapy. But my dysphoria, and my fucked up heart... that I really needed some help with.

But of course this could all also be a delusion. It's not normal to believe that you sold your soul to the devil...

Live or die

I've been in distress the whole day, and fighting to not lose it when I had to be social. My mother and sister came by, and it was clear to me that I needed their support and guiding for my shopping of various necessities. I faded out in the car when they were talking about something they thought was funny. I couldn't hear it, nor did I care. My mother asked me if there's anybody there (in me, as in was I present), and I just couldn't take my eyes of the air in front of me, but managed to say "no". That must be the closest thing to truth I've ever spoken these last few weeks.

I think I need to tell my mother about that part of me being suicidal and all, but I just don't want her to worry. I've started thinking that if I die everyone would be better off without me. I'm such a mess, causing everyone to worry. I can tell you have all given up on me. That I will never be happy, never have a career, never learn to drive, never start living. I can't even imagine how hard it must be to have a friend, a brother or a son who has repeatedly tried to commit suicide for a decade. All I am is failure, my life was a mistake. I'm not saying you don't care, cause I know that you do, and that is why you worry, cause if you didn't care you wouldn't be worried.

No, I'm not yet planning anything. My thoughts of suicide are tangled in webs of incoherent words and brutal pictures in my head. I visualise how it could be like to jump, or rather just fall. Or would I faint? My fear of heights is extreme, you see. I imagine I would feel so dizzy and nauseous and that my heart would beat so fast. I can't imagine anything more scary, so why would I want to end my life that way?

These thoughts give me a headache. Beyond the fact that I already hurt inside cause I think my heart has tied a knot around itself. I don't want to die, I don't want to leave everything to never be able to go back. The problem is that I don't want to live either. I really, really don't want to live like this. What was it I said? That I have nothing to lose by staying alive because sooner or later we all die.
What kind of crap is that? As long as I'm alive I will always have something to lose. But the most ironic of it all, is that most of all, right now, I fear for my future. I fear that I will kill myself. That must be the definition of ambivalence. That I want to kill myself at the same time as I'm scared as hell that I'll actually do it. What a paradox I've gotten myself into.

I'm torn apart between them. Of not wanting to either live or die, being just as scared of living as I am of dying. But this little voice inside my head (not Anna) says: make up your mind, live or die. And a part of me so silently whispers that I can just barely hear it: I choose to die.

Holidays and mental illness

I think I know now why I often (not always) get much worse over holidays, such as Midsummer and Christmas. It could be because I don't have any connection with the psychiatry at those times. They are all on vacation. And lately, I can't even rely on my medication to keep me above the surface. Something is constantly increasing, decreasing, new or old coming up and I have to change my meds again.

During this autumn and winter so far, I've had to see my psychiatrist every month (that is a lot in my life) cause there's always something new going on. Anxiety, sleeplessness and mood swings are the most recurring reasons these days.

So, my theory is that because I don't have any shrinks or doctors to go to on a regular basis around those holidays it causes emotional overload. It's sad cause it's a time you're supposed to enjoy life, but it's also proving the point that mental illness doesn't take a break just because it's a time for celebration. For long I had to convince my parents of that, that I don't get to choose when my anxiety hits the roof or when I get suicidal. That delicious food and presents don't make the voices more tolerable, or that candy and cake don't chase away my irrational fears. I wish it did though. God, I wish it did.

For so many Christmas holidays I have curled up in my room with razor blades or stuffed animals, trying to hide what horrible state I was in so that my parents wouldn't notice that their celebration didn't ease my misery. And it all just made me feel even more horrible. Ungrateful. They were doing everything they could to make it a good time for me and my sister, and there I was banging my head in the wall to make the voices stop saying mean things to me. It felt like it was my fault, that I was ungrateful and selfish. That I somehow demanded more, which of course I didn't, if not only from myself then.

No one should have to feel that way. Cause I can't be the only one who's had it like that. I seriously thought it was me doing something wrong, that I didn't appreciate the seasonal celebration enough. But that's not true, it's not your fault if you can't make yourself feel better just because you're supposed to.

While you probably do get told that you can't reason with psychological problems like anxiety, it should be more informative of the fact that it can be extra horrible during holidays. But it never says anything about that anywhere, as far as I know. So I'm saying it right now. Because you have more demands on yourself, and feeling the pressure from family and friends that you should be happy. I wish I would have known that in my teens and late childhood.

Although, that is what you get told as a child, isn't it? That if you suffer and complain with no visible reason for it, you're obviously ungrateful and whiny. Though I had no word for anxiety when I was ten, and Anna was very keen about me not uttering a single word about her constant nagging voice in my head. So even when I eventually did complain I didn't really say anything about what was actually going on with me.

My mental problems have never given a damn about the circumstances around me. It can be winter, summer, autumn or spring - rainy, snowy, sunny or cloudy - Christmas Eve or just a normal Thursday - when my emotional chaos starts storming again. It isn't dependent on the weather or the season at all. I call it "chaos" for a very good reason: it is undefinable, unpredictable and seemingly uncontrollable.

Right now I settle for just calling it "chaos" rather than trying to shove it into a specific diagnosis. As I use to say (not that often I think though) is that I believe I will some day have a mental disorder named after me. But... if I'm the only one with that new disorder, maybe it won't be named at all? I've gotta find myself some followers!

Cause seriously, I could be considered "completely healthy" by psychological standards: not fit into any diagnosis at all. But having at least one, or several, horrible traits of almost every disorder known to man is making me mentally disabled ...and undiagnosed. I have considered that option before, it's just that it would be so painful. Cause that would doom me. Doom, damn and condemn me for the rest of my days. There's a reason why they shuffle me between different departments all of the time. I'm allover the place, my problems are allover the place, and I don't fit in anywhere. It's confusing, but apparently I'm worse off without that circus, I notice during those times of celebration.

Conclusion: Maybe this is the reason, maybe it is not. Maybe I just still, since childhood, have those demands on me that I'm not allowed to be an emotional chaos just because we're opening presents and eat special food.

*

Okay, this turned out a whole lot longer than I intended it to. It's these words, they never end. I could go on and on on the same issue for hours and even days, and still be able to go back to it later and continue ravaging it. I'll try to cut it a little. There. Much shorter.

Who I was supposed to be

I hate being so dependent. On things, people, money, schedules, society, anything. While most of those things I can't just break the connection with (though I've tried), some of them I've on and off been believing I could break off with. Like medicine, for example. Why should I not be able to live without that? I'm not terminally ill, I can't die from some unspecified, undiagnosed mental illness, and I'm handicapped either way. What if it would be better? What if I could think clearer, crawl out of my shell?

And people. Everyone is more or less dependent on other people; your boss to give you pay checks, your landlord to not kick you out of your apartment, your dentist or doctor, and even your friends and family to be there for you. But I'm a little bit more dependent than the average joe. Definitely more than I would like to be. That's where my "running away" -thoughts come in, when I think I should just get away from everyone and try to live completely on my own for a little while. Because sometimes it just gets too much.

I just don't want to be so dependent on others taking care of me. That I need to rely on strangers from a special service residence to help me wash my clothes cause I can't manage it on my own. I suppose that really bugs me.

Ever since I was a kid I've always wanted to be able to take care of myself, live on my own terms, drive my own business company, get a driver's licence and go wherever I wanted and do whatever I wanted. It never turned out that way, and a part of me just won't accept it.

Still dreaming of that perfect house close to a town, have my own car (a Jeep would be nice) and a freelance job or no fucking job at all, writing and painting all days. Being happy, pill free, living completely alone and not having to as much as talk to a doctor too often to be able to consider myself healthy. Of course I would have a romantic partner living with me as well though, in a good but not perfect relationship where we grow together as people and sometimes bicker over trivialities.

It would have been an almost realistic dream if I hadn't been a mentally handicapped lunatic. Of course I don't hate myself for being a weirdo, sometimes that can be a real asset, and it does make me kinda interesting. But it costs me my freedom. That, in that dream, that is who I was supposed to be. The eccentric, philosophical artist with a little crazy ideas of a good life, independent and possible to live with.

But something deprived me of that possibility, that life. That freedom and independency that I so much crave. I feel constantly trapped in my own body, in my own mind. And there's no way out. I will most likely just continue to deteriorate and even if I don't end up taking my life, I doubt that I will live to 80. Perhaps to 40, or 50 if I'm "lucky" considering smoking shortens one's life span by 10 years, severe mental illness such as Schizophrenia shortens it by 20 years, and my other bad habits will probably also shorten it even more. Maybe it's not so far off thinking I might not even live to 30...

But it is not living a long life that I want, cause what good is a long life if you suffer? I'd rather have a short life. A short and miserable life or a short and decent life are both better than a long and insufferable life. Of course some things can get better, and I do hope that I'll be able to turn it all around to a brighter path, but deep down I know that my chances of making that happen are very slim.

So I don't really hate myself. I just hate my life and what I've become. How it all turned out, and what it's leading to. I see and hear about my friends getting permanent jobs, finishing their studies, talking about pay checks, moving to their own apartments, getting pets, keeping steady relationships for years, getting engaged, getting married, having children.

And I'm just withering away. Still dependent on my parents, can't live entirely on my own or with anyone, probably wouldn't be able to hold a job for more than five minutes, can't even study as of now, wouldn't be able to care for a pet, I've been single for two years and I'll probably never be able to have a child.

I try to tell myself that I'm still young, and most of my friends who have gotten that far in life are older than me. And who knows, maybe things will be different in five or ten years? But I don't believe it. The problem is that I don't believe in it because it's so damn unlikely.

*

Sorry for the super long entry. I just go on and on on the same topics. When I try to finish it off I just think of more to add. I'm hopeless in that area.

Just another addiction

Had a little nap. Just fell asleep on the sofa at eight on Wednesday evening and woke up just now, four o'clock in this early Friday morning. A 32 hours nap, breaking my previous record of the longest time I've been asleep for. Of course I woke up a few times during my visit to dream-/nightmareland, but I didn't want to get up. So I just stayed there. I chose to get up at this early hour because I'm going to see my shrink at 11:00 and I want to have some time just doing nothing before getting ready for that. It's not like I need to sleep more.

So this is it then? My sleep habit summed up in a month or two: awake for 30 to 80 hours, sleep for 20 to 30 hours. Afraid of sleeping and addicted to sleep deprivation for as long as my body and mind can take it. Cause yeah, that's what happened this time. I realised that I'm not just hypnophobic, but also addicted to causing myself sleep deprivation. How I figured that one out? I had miscalculated the hours of awaken time, from what I believed was 4 days, was actually only 3 days. I was upset that I had not at all reached something close to 100 hours, but "just" around 75 hours, barely breaking my old record.

"Was I proud over my imaginary extra 24 hors making me believe I'm close to a 100 hours of sleep deprivation? Was I fucking proud?!" I wrote in my paper diary. The anxiety that realisation gave me was a bit more than I could take. So I took 2 Zyprexa, 2 caff. pills and downed them with a solution of 2 Bamyl Koffein. Hoping that all the caffeine would keep me awake while the Zyprexa usually makes me tired. Failed. So I can't even take Zyprexa for my anxiety anymore? Well that's just great.

I gave up and stopped fighting. I felt like shit after what felt like 95 hours but was only 75. I couldn't do it, keep on fighting with all those feelings of being a fucking failure. Something I shouldn't feel like a failure over. So I took my horrible feelings and lied down on the sofa. When misery wins over misery.

Trying not to drown

I'd rather be alone, than with anyone else than him. God, I'm so pathetic... how did I get this way? I promised not to fall in love, but I did it anyway. I tried for a while, I really did, but it was harder to not love him than it is to love him.

It's been getting worse lately. The feelings are more often overwhelming, and it's hard focusing on anything else. I do try though... sometimes. Other times it's just easier to wallow in the emotions, for some reason.

I'm drifting in and out of various states of apathy, longing, hopelessness, wanting, lack of appetite, some appetite, sleeplessness, sorrow, greed, wishing and hoping. I want those feelings to go away but I don't know what I want to feel instead. Some things I just can't get. His love in return, feeling complete, loved, appreciated, beautiful and content with myself and the life I live. That's never gonna happen, so I suppose I'm trying to make the best of what I do have in a bizarre, potentially fatal way.

Giving in... that has never been a good thing to do when it comes to my decisions in life. That's what has lead me to addictions, self destruction and suicide attempts in the past. When I just let go and let my mind and heart tear me to pieces. Or maybe I'm just mixing up "giving in" with "giving up" cause they tend to look a bit like twins from where I stand.

I can't help but wonder how much longer this can go on. Weeks, months, years? I can't be in love with him for years, right? That sounds so damn... painful. It's been two months already and I can barely endure it as of now. It's growing stronger, and every day it becomes a little more painful, a little more fatal. And by fatal I do mean suicide.

I'm gonna try to avoid that though, but lovesickness isn't something shrinks understand, it's not in their hands. But suicide is, and whatever the reason. It's just that if they have no idea how to handle a patient with severe lovesickness, then how would they be able to help me if it was to come to that?

I suppose I will have to help myself as usual... and that's gone well in the past... not. Sometimes I wonder that if I had ever gotten any useful help from the psychiatry I wouldn't be so fucked up as I am today. I've been thinking on and off that I should just cut off all contact with the psychiatry, they're just making everything worse. And I ask myself why I'm even going there.

So... (yes, this entry will go on forever) I really don't have a solution to what I should do if this gets any worse. I can take medication and seek comfort in others, but that's about it. And sad to say, but that has never been enough. I don't know what would be enough, I just know what isn't working. I'm tired of constantly trying to find new methods in how to survive, and repeating the old ones that didn't work. But what else can I do? Maybe this is what living is?

Try, fail and repeat. Over and over and over until there won't be any more repeat. I don't know how to sleep or eat, I don't know how to feel and think, I don't know how to be social or keep friends, I don't know how to heal or function, I don't know how to love and sometimes I forget to breathe. I don't know how to live, or even if I want to live. I'm mentally disabled and it's screwing with my soul.

I'm chain smoking again. That was a while ago. Well, not that long, come to think of it. Literally chain smoking, lighting a new cigarette right after putting the one before out. Today started out alright, but then I fell again. I should eat, take some pills, cut myself, whatever will help. I'm way past distractions now, but still far from an anxiety attack. I hope...

Everything isn't hopeless. Why do I keep forgetting that?! I'm eating, at least once a day. Though all I eat is pancakes and frozen microwave meals, but still. It could be classified as food. I have a circadian rhythm, though it's very hard for me to fall asleep and I don't get enough sleep, but still. I'm on hormones legally and supervised, and I will go in for surgery in the somewhat near future. Everything points to that at least, though it's been awfully quiet from the hospital. The point is: everything really isn't hopeless. It really isn't. It isn't hopeless. It isn't hopeless. Mantras, I've been doing that a lot lately. Doubt they help, but you never know.

Wanna see how much I can write at once without taking a break or deleting anything? Of course you do. Pausing for lighting a cigarette doesn't count.

I realise I really can go on forever with this. Weighting the pros and cons of being in love, of being alive. It's sad to say that no matter how I count, the negative always weighs more. But what am I gonna do about it? I have to own the whole world and be loved by everyone for the scale to tip the other way. But I don't want that, sounds strenuous... My dreams are too big and my hopes are too small. No, my hopes are also sky high.

My mind takes me to strange places when I think about meeting him in person. I just can't keep it on a realistic level. Just can't stop hoping, for what will never happen unless I'm EXTREMELY lucky, and I'm never extremely lucky. Not even close. Basically everything that I have to be thankful for in my life came to me because I put in a lot of effort, took a lot of risks and was very patient. So why am I hoping for a miracle, it will only hurt more than it already does because I know that won't happen. Not in this reality.

Perhaps it's because this is the last hope I can have in regards to this lovesickness: how he would react if or when I tell him. Cause after that there is no more. Then I can go back to hating everyone and blocking my own Facebook account again. Realising that being around people just makes everything worse, and that I'm better off far away from people.

Cause that's what the end of lovesickness reaches to. I break into even smaller and sharper pieces and shun the world and all that resembles it. At least I know what to expect this time. I just want it to be over, just want it to be over... and maybe that's the real reason why I wanna tell him, cause it might be the first step to some sort of recovery. But in that case it is selfish, and why place such a burden on him, the person I love so damn much I just wanna rip my heart out?

I don't understand myself, or the thoughts that I'm thinking. Nothing makes any sense! Believe me, I just want to do what is right, but I don't know what right is. I keep confusing right with wrong and all the shades in between. Is telling him wrong, is it right or just somewhere in between? If it's selfish, then it is wrong. But if not telling him is breaking me apart, isn't that also wrong? Is letting him know righteous, would he even want to know?

I'm completely analysing this into mashed potato. One moment, one feeling, one meeting that hasn't even taken place yet, analysed into a 1297 words long blog entry. Wow.

Out of my hands

So I’ve been trying to install this PC game “Alice Madness Returns” that I’ve had lying around for a while. But it's so fucked up just trying to install the shit and making it work! I don't understand what I’m doing wrong! Ended up screaming at the top of lungs that I hate it, hate it so fucking much, why can't it be easy, why can't anything ever be easy?  Suddenly understand why I just stick to WoW and never try anything new... it's so much hassle around it, it's so damn frustrating it's just not worth it. But I really wanna give this game a chance. But how am I supposed to do that when everything just keeps buggering? Something or someone is feeding me anxiety, and I think it is God. That fucker.

What he fuck is wrong with me today?! I’ve had three anger outburst in less than 15 minutes, my throat hurts, my fists and fingers hurt, as well as everything inside me. I thought yesterday was a bad day... Today seem to be worse, at least it started off worse, it's still only morning. I can't press the keyboard keys any harder, yet I still miss out letters! It's like those old typing machines you basically need a frigging hammer to make the ink stick on the paper. Yeah I have one of those, from the 60's or 70's I think. Perhaps even from the 50's.

There's just not enough anxiolytic drugs in the goddamn world for what I feel today. Just bloody kill me! I can't even use OpenOffice without raging. It crashed repeatedly (it's never done that before). I guess it's just the document that has gotten too big, or how to say it. However, I won't use it anymore today. There should be a page limit for when it starts crashing. It seems to be somewhere around 30-40 pages.

Fuck it all. All this shit just reminds me of why I never want to do anything at all out of the ordinary. It's not Asperger or any other mental disorder shit, it's because everything just fucks up all the damn time. My ability to be a complete failure just makes wanna crawl into a cocoon and stay there for the rest of my miserable life.

It's just one of those days, huh? There some to be quite many of those, don't you think? I'm sooo damn close to just give it all up again. Say "fuck you and all your shit" to life itself and jump off a roof top. Cause all this shit isn't worth enduring for the few things that are good in life. I can count those on one hand, but the everything negative is countless. Fucking countless!

I don't just have a little anxiety, I don't know what's going on to be honest. A lot of anxiety, so damn much I can't even begin to comprehend it. I know it's out of my hands when I'm popping pills until I'm constantly drugged and cutting myself until I'm constantly bleeding. The anxiety is eating me alive, it's fucking eating me alive. Why can't these damn pills work!? Why am I even paying for them?! I can swear they're all made of sugar, or fake sugar, cause otherwise they'd make me fat.

It's drowning me

I’m filling up my seventh cup of coffee for today now. A mixed feeling of bitterness and sadness is slowly drowning me, and for the first time in weeks I have to resist the urge to pour myself a drink. Can't remember if I've eaten anything today, that probably means that I haven't. Something shatters inside me when I have to cut more than once a day. Isn't that enough? Why can't that be enough?!

Obviously something is extra tough today. My mood still swings, but to the darker side more. I have no creative energy, just don't wanna do anything at all really. I'm jaded by the thought of sleep constantly on my mind, and how I try so hard to escape it with caffeine, cutting, cigarettes and music. I’m popping the last Lyrica I have with a Sobril. How the hell am I gonna manage this? Soon I’ll be a benzo addict as well, just because my fear of sleep is ripping my insides apart. It's horrible being afraid of something you have to endure every day. You seriously can't imagine it if you haven't experienced it yourself. It ruins everything.

It's worse now, cause now I’m actually trying to sleep at night. I succeeded this night, but it wasn't easy, not easy at all... I took my Mitrazapin and Lergigan at 22:00 as I was supposed to, but resisted the effect without caffeine. Held the jar with caff pills, just wanted them, craved them, but forced myself not to. Around 01:30 I freaked out, cut and swallowed two Sobril and one Imovane, got in the shower and stayed there until I couldn't stand up any longer when the effect had kicked in. I went to bed and lied there for at least an hour, scared as hell. Shifted between trying to close my eyes and go to sleep – and staring at my phone, right into his eyes on the picture on my cell phone screen, with jaded heartbeats, trying to force myself to stay awake. Around 03:30 or so I finally fell asleep, and got up at 09:50 when the crew woke me up.

So now I’m even more scared and stressed out, cause it's nine o'clock and the night is coming slowly closer. I’m fighting with all my strength, but it just doesn't seem to be enough. Will I stay up tonight or will I repeat the last? Don't wanna think about it, but it hurts less than seeing a picture of my love with his girlfriend. Thinking of how far far away he is, imagining him holding me, comforting me without words, just being here. My fantasies are so pointless, I wish I could just fall out of love. I hate my fucking heart! Why do I always have to repeat the same mistake of falling for unobtainable people over and over again? What's the damn fucking point in that?!

I just don't know what to do. What could possibly make me heal and move on when I just keep moving backwards all the time? I’m right where I was three years ago again, right in the same fucking mess. The only difference is that I live hundred miles away from my friends and the person I’m in love with now, and I don't go to school. I wear the same clothes, listen to the same music, wear the same feelings, going through the same addictions. Still can't fucking sleep or eat, I'm still filled to the brim with anxiety and struggling with the psychiatry that doesn't have a shit to give me. So what's the point of it all, what's the god damned point?

I've lived this far, I know I can survive it, but that's not the question. This has got nothing to do with suicide. All I want is to figure out a way to endure it without resorting to another failed suicide attempt. Cause that is also kinda pointless. All a failed suicide attempt brings me is shame, distress, feeling like a failure, apathy and complete, utter hopelessness. It's like even my heathen god laughs at me for being so pathetic. I just don't wanna feel this way, and I wish there was a cure for lovesickness. Cause it's drowning me.

Believe

I realise I don't really quite tell people up front about how I consider myself a Satanist or the real reason behind it. Especially not curious strangers, but I suppose my faith is a bit, erhm... unconventional even among friends, and I’d definitely not be honest about it to my family. I only told them the basic guidelines of LaVeyan Satanism, which isn't even the kind I’m following. I suppose I didn't even wanna tell them to begin with, it just slipped out of me and I had to think fast. But even now I don't want to tell them the truth.

I’m not ashamed or anything, it's just that I feel uncomfortable explaining and defending myself for something that is to me highly personal. This is exactly the reason people frown upon modern, newly converted Satanists. Especially the ones who wears black and listens to non-stereotypical music. Because it's something people just can't understand, so what's the point in trying to explain?

If my family knew it would only further increase their idea of me being a complete looney. Sooner or later I probably will drop the “S-word” (schizophrenia), as an indicator that I know I’m not completely sane but also that I don't always know what is real or imaginary in the world as I perceive it. That I have doubts about things they assure me are real, and strongly believe in things they assure me are figments of my imagination. What this could have to do with my faith I don't know. Perhaps that I on some level might think that my perception of Satan might be false due to hallucinations or even a delusion. That I’m aware of the fact that everything I say or do could be my messed up brain making up stories, but it isn't my intention cause to me it is as real as the grass is green in the summer.

Though I’m sure my family knows that already, but do they know that I know that? Would I invalidate not only myself but my true beliefs, by mentioning that I think I have Schizophrenia with a reasonable cause, while at the same time expressing my extreme devil worship? Would I create a link between the two by doing so, or does it even matter what I tell them? I’ve lost all my hopes or thoughts that I could look my mother in her eyes and tell her my truth and know that she would believe me. It's not that I don't trust her, cause I do, it's just that I’ve stopped believing in her. Because it feels like she stopped believing in me.

So what is the point of ever telling her anything that is important to me? Cause nothing I say seems to be important to her. All she says nowadays is “sure, sure, if you believe that...” and when we discuss things, or rather argue, all she does is trying to prove me wrong. I’ve become distant to her lately, and it almost kinda feels like I’ve lost a friend. Now she's just a mother to me, and I know it might sound horrible, but that is not enough. I have no one else on this island, and she's always been more than just a mother to me.

I will talk to her about this, as soon as I find the words, cause I need for her to listen to me. Not just hear my words, but listening and focusing. We know each other so well, so what is this sudden gap between us? Sometimes I’ve thought of just saying: “You think that I’m crazy. That every single thing I believe in is a figment of my imagination. You've given up on me, that I’d ever become anything or succeed in life. You don't appreciate my creativity: the only thing that keeps me alive. It feels like everything I say just goes right through you and you don't even listen to me anymore. I still trust you and I know you want me no harm either, but when did you stop believing in me?”