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.

When there's no escape

Let's talk about pain. It does things to you. It makes you do things you didn't think you'd ever do. As a kid I never wanted to drink or do drugs, I swore I'd never do that. I never got desperate enough to take a whole bottle of pills or get so drunk I couldn't stand on my own feet cause I couldn't deal with my headache. Because I wanted to escape.

I remember the first few months after it got chronic. I was sixteen and just wanted to lead a normal life, go to school and meet new friends. Become something, have a job that I didn't hate. Of course I still wanted to be different, that's not what I mean. It was so hard to come to terms with it and accept it. It took almost a year before I gave up on trying to understand and cure it.

Now when I take something, recommended dosage of painkillers or something more of a dangerous amount, I just try to get rid of the worst of it. It never works anymore. Not even morphine and I think it's because it isn't physical anymore. There's this thing with our brains, it remembers pain and can make you experience it even if you aren't actually in pain anymore. It's hard to explain, cause I don't fully understand it.

There is no cure, there is nothing I can do. Most days I accept it, try to work around it somehow, anyhow. Find my limits, when to stop or slow down. I can't even go to School anymore. It is that disabling, cause after one or two School days in a row it becomes so strong I have to go home and rest for a week. Aside from the other mental problems that hits the roof at about that time or even sooner. With slight social anxiety, dysphoria, psychotic symptoms and a splitting headache you just don't work in society.

It makes me nuts sometimes, all of that, but I can handle most of it, with rest and time, but not the headache. Psychotic episodes eventually fade, dysphoria goes down when I'm back at home again, social anxiety goes away when I'm away from social situations. But the headache never goes away. Ever. It doesn't matter how much I rest or whatever I do or don't do.

I wish there was something that could be done about it. My ideas have been everything from crazy to stupid. Like when I want to literally be beheaded or when I cut myself only to ease the headache. Sometimes it works a bit, the latter that is, which is kinda sad.

Right now I'm worried I'd get a fever. Cause if I do it's likely an infection and I have to go to the emergency ward. Don't want to spend my Easter that way.

Anna says: Don't be afraid of your own body.
I respond: There's nothing I am more afraid of.

Make it through

I cannot torture my body enough for all the hatred I feel towards it. I couldn't find my binder as I was about to go to Visby and see my shrink earlier today. You should have seen the despair in me, I can't leave the house without it. I cried out to my mother on the phone, then she's helped me find it. I told her I simply won't go if we didn't find my binder. Then should I ask her if she still thinks the surgery won't do me any good?

It's like nothing can calm me down these last two weeks. I'm a nerve wreck, constantly on the edge. My body aches more than usually, I forget to eat more often, my sleep only seems to make me more tired, it's hard to focus, it's hard to think. Why am I supposed to have this much anxiety? There's not enough room for it inside me.

Well, the anxiety hardly only exists because I misplaced a piece of clothing. No, it's always here. Like my shadow, it's following me everywhere I go. And sometimes it attacks me with full strength, beats me to the ground and I forget how to get up again. Sometimes that happens several times a day.

I have a sensation that February is gonna be a very long month this year. Even though it's technically the shortest. I couldn't tell my shrink about tomorrow, it's just too damn private. Yeah, there's my logic, cause it's easy to write about it online and a whole different matter to sit one on one in a white office and talk about it. But I'm pretty sure she noticed something was up with me, cause it's hard to lie when you're shaking like a leaf. Didn't stop me from trying though, cause it's my life damn it, and I'm just not ready to open up about that yet.

And why isn't that in my chart by the way? I've told shrinks before. Maybe they didn't believe me. Of course they didn't believe me. Why would they? It doesn't matter if I'm shaking and crying, I have no real proof that it actually happened. It was never documented at the time, I never went to a hospital or anything after. I just tried to bury it in the past. All I've got is my words, and that's all I've ever had.

My thoughts are mostly very scattered. I can hardly finish one before the next pops up and then the third and so on. It's like I'm trying to do fifteen things at the same time and it's impossible to keep track of it all. So I just zone out and let it slip away instead. That's why I don't put up everything I write here. It's too much and too little and I don't have the attention span to read it through. Though I'm gonna try to keep you posted, at least once a day or so, especially since things are happening and such nowadays.

I've been smoke free since Friday last week, and it's Thursday now so it's already been a whole week! A little over three weeks left until the surgery, and I still don't know how the hell I'm supposed to survive that. No smokes, no pain killers, no cutting... no nothing? I'll make it, cause I just fucking have to.

Falling fast

Smoking today's first cigarette is like a kiss, gentle and deep. I will miss this so much. Will only be three today as well, so the next one won't be until 5 pm. I'm seeing my psychiatrist today, I hope she can help me somehow.

I'm so tired and nothing can make me more alert. It's hard to focus on WoW, even though I really want to play, I zone out and forget what I was doing. Killing more monsters than I need to and not realising the quest is complete, killing the wrong monsters, flying in the wrong direction and so on.

What a way to start a day. Great, now I feel miserable because of my own fucked up way to deal with anxiety. I had not cut in about two weeks now, so this was my first relapse, and perhaps for a so-so okay reason. But it still makes me feel guilty. I know my cuts take about a week to heal up completely, so if I stop before the beginning of March it should be "fine" considering the surgery.

I've gotta buy more nicotine supplements, cause this just isn't working. I'm very addicted, I realise. Very, very addicted. And wearing two or three patches of the strongest kind simultaneously barely takes the edge of it. So... need more patches and chewing gums and whatever I can possibly find at the drug store, before my meeting in Visby. I really don't know how much longer I'll be able to go through this. I mean, I'm a damn mess even with the cigarettes to rely on.

I'm starting to wake up a bit now, finally. Yes! These chewing gums combined with all those patches helps a bit. I saw an instruction advise note in the drug store, that for those smoking more than 20 cigarettes a day should de-escalate a under three months period. Well...

The fury within me

I can't deal with this. I just freaked so horribly because my computer decided to have an emergency shut down right when I was writing and playing WoW. Sure these simple note pad programs are handy and easy to use, but if it's lost somehow, it's lost forever. To be honest I don't really know what I lost, nor do I even care about it.

It's just that the way inanimate objects tend to live their own lives drives crazy. And I mean screaming, crying, hitting things, hitting myself, drinking, cutting, cursing kinda crazy. The sort of pure fury no one cant really understand unless you've experienced it yourself. And there is nothing more destructive than that. I somewhat managed to control myself this time though.

Yes, I both screamed and cried and also hit things, but I didn't touch the computer. I didn't know what to do with myself, almost tore off my eyebrow piercing even. It's like that extreme anger is a life force on its own, possessing my body, making me unable to control any of my muscles. It's like a directed spasm, stronger than a fucking orgasm even. It's that overwhelming, but I can't make anyone understand. I'm not me when I get that angry, I become something else.

All those words

Still crying, with pauses in between. Or maybe it's just the cigarette smoke, I don't know. But I feel so unbelievably sad. I can't take any pills for sadness, and there's no use in trying any antidepressants either. I dunno what my doctor can possibly tell me that I don't already know, at our next meeting on the 28th.

I was a bit upset when I got the note that I am to see her so late into January. She was supposedly back to work on the 8th so can't blame it on that. I suppose I just wasn't a priority.

Damn, I just wanna disappear somewhere. I don't wanna talk to anyone, don't want your simple tips on what I can do, I already have lots of lists with both good and bad things to do in a crisis like this. Well, maybe it's not so much of an actual crisis, but when cutting isn't enough (like now) I usually end up doing worse things, and that would be a crisis.

I wish I could be silent forever, to never speak a word again. Words are so pointless. Language is so pointless. They say the human mind cannot grasp what words cannot tell. I don't wanna say this because I'm otherkin, but I do grasp a lot of what words cannot tell. And that's why I find it so meaningless, cause words have no longer any meaning when none of them are enough to communicate with.

But I can't. I can't just decide to stop speaking. Of course people wouldn't call me that often anymore, but they would be banging on my door just as much instead. They would become more frustrated than I would be, given only nods or head shakes, short sentences written with a trembling hand.

People think that talking could cure mental illness. How wrong they are. "People" who are supposed to be educated in psychology, who have read shit loads of books on the subject for years, practised as psychologists or therapists or whatever, talked to lots of various broken people. "People" who should by all means know better than I do. I'm a hobby counsellor reading heavy students literature for fun, and I know that words can't cure anything.

Or am I just being subjective now? Because after years of seeing several so called "specialists" on the minds of humans haven't helped me even the least bit? Well, I finally got a psychologist, for the first time someone who actually knows more than I do. That is just sad. That I know/knew more about psychology than all those various counsellors I've met up until now. But most of all, I know that knowledge hasn't give me any solace.

So what, I have Aspergers. I know about it, and I know what you're supposed to do to make living with it easier. But you know what? None of that shit works on me cause I'm also an emotionally unstable, depressive, transgendered full time self harmer with split personality, who hears voices and believes that he's a demon. What do you do to "cure" that? Nothing. There is no cure for freaks like me.

I really can't think of a title...

Nope, still not done crying. I guess that can go on all night. Some people's Tumblr pages are so disturbing. I just ended up on another self harmer's page, and that girl is really into it, or how to say it. Damn have to force myself to not cut, cause she has like a million pictures of cut up arms covering half my screen. It's sooo triggered you can't know.

I would never upload or reblog any of that stuff, even though I'm not hiding that I'm dealing with my problems in the same fucked up way. I post quotes about it though, but that's different. That's letting people know that I suffer without flaunting it as if it was a piece of fashion.

A part of me thinks that these teenagers, or kids (they're usually between 12 and 17 who uploads those kind of pictures) almost take it a little to seriously.  I mean, they are wearing their wounds like a way of identifying themselves. It shouldn't be that way.

Even though I'm not much for trying to quit right now, I know that I do want to quit. And I have all the reasons for quitting, it's just that I'm not strong enough for that now - will I ever be?

As long as listening to music, taking anxiolytics prescribed to me, playing WoW or watching tv-shows still aren't enough to even take the edge of my anxiety and "need" to cut - I just can't make the effort to stop. I'm too much of a mess, and I can't even promise that one I'll be ready, cause I honestly don't think that I ever will.

Cause when you've been at it for as long as I have, it becomes a way of life. It's not that I identify myself with it, it's more like I don't know how to live without it.

Over to something a little less depressive. I'm trying to level up a gnome in WoW to 20, only so that I can get a mechanical chicken for a mount. They are so awesome! But I really don't like gnomes, for some reason, so it's a bit annoying that mine won't level any faster. Also crossed by a couple of blood elves on my path and they laughed at me. I would too. Blood elves are so beyond awesome and I hate gnomes. Oh well...

Now I shouldn't complain, I know that, and also I'm already at level 19, so I got one fucking level left for a choice that I made entirely myself. So come on, what am I really complaining about? Be right back, just gonna hit that damn level and then happily go back to my belf.

Not today

Death is freedom. I can't let go of that thought. I'm serious when I say that I want to be murdered, cause then I won't have to kill myself. I'm fantasising about it, I'm looking for people who could possibly be murderers, wanting one to find me. They say every person generally meets 36 murderers in their lifetime without knowing it. I want to find mine.

Perhaps I've told you already, but I doubt that you believe me. I doubt that you would think that if I was to end up in a situation like that, I wouldn't fight for my sad excuse for a life, I wouldn't beg. I would invite it. It doesn't matter in what manner. Quick, slow, peaceful, painful, graceful or humiliating, or excruciatingly humiliating. Hate crime or bar fight, including torture and or rape, I don't care.

I just don't know how to find someone like that, who isn't dead or in prison, or lives way too far away. It's not like I could just "pop the question" about something as serious as murder. I could get in trouble, I could put someone else in trouble.

Other than that I'm absolutely obsessed by the thought of suicide even when I'm not suicidal. I romanticise it, glorify it and it excites me. Other peoples' suicide, their letters, they way they died, everything revolving around it. I love suicide.

Today hasn't really been a good day either. Now I'm drunk on Jägermeister and can't put down the razor blade for more than five minutes at a time. Trying to figure out what I'm gonna do when I'm running out of space on my arm.

I can't even talk to my mother. My mouth just closes up when she talks about everything I have to look forward to. "Yes, of course that will be nice. I'll try to hold on" I say. When in reality I seriously doubt I'll even be alive when those things will supposedly occur.

I'm giving up on life a little more every day. I won't tell you if or when I choose to die, I don't wanna worry you. Right now I'm safe, that's all I can say. Besides, I haven't even found a good spot yet. I know I say it every time, but the next time will be the last. I can feel it inside me, really deeply, that I only have one more attempt ahead of me. But I don't know when that would be. Soon, but not today. Not today.

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.

Procrastinating feelings

I'm always so tired nowadays, like I could just fall asleep at any given moment. Maybe it's still my three months of sleep deprivation and hypnophobia that I'm not entirely recovered from yet. Maybe it's just all the emotional stress that is still going on. I'm not even awake when I'm awake.

It's hard to concentrate on anything. World of warcraft, movies, writing, anything. It takes hours upon getting out of bed for me to wake up somewhat, and then I get so tired again before I know it. Nothing can make even the slightest bit of alert. Not even caffeine or any of the usual or unusual things that I can't think of right now.

People are more annoying than usual in WoW. They keep bothering me with group requests and duel proposals. I was this close to just yell "fuck off" in chat but managed to keep ignoring them instead.

Other than those occasional anger outbursts that don't really burst at all, I feel completely numb today. Just like yesterday and the day before that, and the day before that. Still fantasising about death, self harming, listening to Emilie Autumn and I'm back on normal cigarettes again. I'm not entirely sure why I'm this numb, but it could be that thing that shook me to that shock-like state a month ago. But it's been a month, for crying out loud.

Would it be okay if I say I'm not suicidal, I just have a constant death wish?

It's like I've built a wall around me, and nothing can come through it. I still don't want to feel anything, but I doubt this is a good thing. Well, of course it isn't a good thing, but I don't know what to do about it either. Or if I even want to do something about it. I don't want to be completely numb 24/7, but I don't wanna feel like crap either. And there really isn't a third choice.

I'm putting off going to the grocery store. Just wanna play WoW and watch Criminal Minds. Almost simultaneously. But I have no food left. That is a problem.

Breaking what's already broken

Fucking cruel world this is. Just saying. Days like this I just wanna move into Azeroth and be "reborn" as a heartless Forsaken fighting for The Horde in World of Warcraft. I envy people who know how to love without ending up breaking their own hearts. I have my best friend in mind, cause she knows how to love and who. I envy that so much.

I don't even know how I manage to do that. Break my own heart. But it's so fragile nowadays, I was still torn up after that thing in 2011, already when I fell for my crush. My obsession, my everything, my one true love. Heartbroken and in love with another at the same time. And now somehow that pain has doubled, as I feel I'm about to get heartbroken again. Or maybe I already am.

How can you break an already broken heart? It's simple really, cause even the broken things can be further broken. Shards can become smaller shards, small shards can become splinter, splinter can be pulverised. It feels like what is left of my heart is only scar tissue, seams that are easily ripped up again and again and everything just seeps right through in either direction.

If I wasn't obsessed before, I sure am now. Cause I can't think of anything else than this thing that tears me to pieces a thousand times a day. That not even cutting, smoking, pain killers, sedatives, sleeping pills, anxiolytics, writing, watching movies, playing WoW, drinking tea or eating chocolate can fix. I'm dying inside and there's nothing I can do about it.

So yeah, sometimes I allow myself to wish that I was heartless or cold hearted. That that would make things easier. But you know what they say, right? That it's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. Sometimes I doubt that. I've been through so much pain when it comes to love that I'd rather just erase it all from my memory.

Losing it

Saw my psychologist's today, and I told her about what has made me feel like shit these last few days. What I still won't mention in this blog, but yeah, it's about my crush as you might have figured out. I told her that I think I'm in some sort of shock, and she agreed that is likely. My heart was beating so fast when I told her, and I just couldn't stop the tears. I guess saying it out loud for the first time was a bit overwhelming. I've never cried in front of someone in her position before.

We discussed it a little, but as usual I only remember some of what was said. That she thought I should wait until I'm ready to let those feelings that I'm bottling up loose, and then allow myself to have them. I said it made me sad, and she talked about mourning. Maybe she implied that it's time to let go of my crush, but I don't wanna give up, not just yet. I'm still waiting for him.

Shortly after I got back home I kinda started to feel like I was losing it again, but didn't resort to any self harm or pill popping. Not that I thought I could do without it, I just didn't want to. So I fell asleep on the sofa instead. Thought sleeping was better than being awake. Don't know if I'll get any more sleep tonight though. I guess it depends.

Preventing my heart from breaking

Today I've mostly been chain smoking, drinking a lot of tea, consuming chocolate of various kinds. All drugged up on Zyprexa and Sobril, endorphins from numerous self inflicted wounds. Can barely walk or control my muscles and my eyes feel heavy, but sleep is impossible. I'm calmer now though. But it took half my stash of meds to get there.

I haven't felt this numb and empty for as long as I can remember. Maybe I'm in some sort of shock. I can't feel the music, only hear it. I don't get angry, or amused by anything. It's like I've shut down, or a part of me has. But better empty than full of anxiety and sadness, which is what I'm trying to hold back. Maybe holding back a bunch of feelings takes so much energy that no other feelings can emerge in their place. And it leaves me with this empty hole inside of me.

Everything is half-hearted, resistant, hesitant. Maybe I want to be miserable? Maybe I asked for this to happen? I know I thought it. Just so that I could suffer more. Cause this is the only way I know how to feel alive. This week is gonna be a hell to survive.

Barely there

Barely need to reach down to the floor to turn the kettle on. Use the same unwashed tea cup for the seventh time, the same teabag for the third. Everything is spread around me, all the trash that I collect. Soda cans, cigarette butts and paper tissues litter around my chair like a fortress of hopelessness. My back aches and my head feels tight. I'm sorry, but nothing is alright.

I can't find my desk under all these papers, boxes with medication and books. Counting cigarettes on a writing pad, and forget only half of them. All these reminder notes for things I'd rather just forget. Can barely breathe for all the smoke, but it gets so cold with the window open, I'd rather just suffocate. And I would solve the world problems by shutting them out, if I would let them in to begin with.

The refreshing taste of menthol with blood between my teeth from fresh wounds. It's an addiction that comes an goes, and it has for nine years in January. But time passes and I hardly even notice. I live in the past, in lost dreams and memories that never was. An inevitable sting in my heart. The dagger was already in, it was so easy just to twist it. I remain silent without tears, I built a wall I cannot break through even when I'm alone.

And I realise that I'm still holding back, can't let him into my soul. Cause if I do he'll be there forever, just like Caspian and T. I can deal with a broken heart, but a broken soul can never fully heal. Pull down my sleeves and light another cigarette. I'm still here.

It's in my blood

I dreamt that I had bleached my whole hair, but I didn't understand why, but then I realised that I wanted to become blonde. I was on a trip with my two friends and one one them got furious over me accidentally breaking something of his, and then we had somewhat of a war where he destroyed my things, one at a time, saying that he was only getting even with me.

I don't know if this is a delusion, but I think that when I'm letting myself bleed, I let out more than just my blood. This anxiety, this illness or condition or whatever it is. I think that it's in my blood. Like a hereditary/congenital disease or a virus. And by letting some of it out, I also temporarily free myself from what runs in it. When I feel faint right afterwards, I know that I've succeeded to let out some of it. Again, this could be interpreted as a figure of speech, but I do mean literally. That tapping it out is almost kinda like some sort of cleansing. Perhaps this isn't so weird at all, this idea. But it sounds like something in the lines of psychotic thinking. It's hard to tell from where I stand.

But a belief must be like any other belief, right? I mean, say if I believe in ghosts, then I can categorize that belief as something occult, right? So why shouldn't I be able to know if my beliefs like this one with my blood is psychotic? Theoretically, that should be possible to distinguish. But it's hard. It's hard as hell. Cause no matter how self aware I am, trying to figure out which of my beliefs are normal, unusual or psychotic can be damn frigging hard at times.

Strawberry gashes and basic needs

I know my anxiolytics are working when I get so numb and distracted I forget my cigarette and can't hold up my arm. I really gotta eat. I hate eating, I don't want to. Wish there was another way. Another way to shut up my growling stomach, another way to regain my energy and make it last. Have you ever thought about how stupid eating is? You have to shove in a lot of shit into your mouth and then the body is only satisfied for a few hours before you have to do it allover again. And most of it you only shit out anyway.

Maybe I am just crazy, but I think the whole process is so... stupid. Like how did evolution think there? Appetite. I think maybe that is why I can't get around this issue. I have no appetite and haven't had that for a really long time, and therefore I start thinking about it in weird terms.

I just wish someone in my circle of friends could understand this. How I think of food and eating. How I only do it to survive, because dying from starvation is just not such a tempting thought. How I only two or three times a year can enjoy food and all the other times it's just a necessary evil. And of all this I seem to dislike vegetables the most. Hard to eat healthy then. And I'm lazy. My thought around cooking food is this: why spend time and effort on something I'm just gonna shove into my mouth to get it over with?

Ugh... I just hate this so much. It's this thing I just can't understand why people like so much. Maybe I'm just programmed wrong or something. As if anything was programmed right. I'm so tired of never working as intended, complexing my life and life itself just keep fucking me over. Cause nothing is ever simple, especially these basic needs, I just can't do it. I can't eat right, I can't sleep right. Well at least I can breathe on my own, I have that to be thankful over. But not for long if I keep on smoking like a chimney.

And I believe this one really big reason why I can't start living a better life. I don't need the crew or my mother a phone call away, I need fucking room service. Someone who literally drags me up from bed every morning, force feeds me my sleeping pills so that I will fall asleep at night and cooks me three meals a day.

I've given up. That is why I stopped trying to sleep better, stopped trying to eat better. At least I'm awake at all, at least I get some sleep at all, and at least I eat something at all. And that's the best I can do for now.

What do anxiolytics do really? They calmed me down, but I was calm already to begin with. Had enough anxiety to cut my whole arm up and think of how miserable I am with this lovesickness situation and that I keep fucking up my life with sleep and food. But I was calm. I took the pills, felt the effect and then I wrote this. After the effect kicked in. Not long either, just a minute or so. I just don't know what to do. Distraction! Distraction, of course! Let's watch a movie or something.

Memories and irony

I hate it that when I sleep for a whole day and two nights and I have like 500 unseen posts on tumblr... Somehow I feel smarter and more connected when I've been awake for 24 hours or more. My brain is a bit slow started. So this is what it's become of my circadian rhythm. I'm not sure if I like it, more apathetic about it. Like I don't care that I'm pulling three or four all nighters, and sleep two or three days in a week, every week. I can't even remember for how long this has gone on.

I'm thinking about my eleventh suicide attempt again. I do that quite a lot lately, just that one. When I could have died. Thinking about that if I hadn't gone to the hospital I would have died that night. Thinking what I should have done instead so that I wouldn't have to be here today. Should not have gone back home, should have taken shelter at McDonalds or something, just until I started to doze off, then walked away to die somewhere secluded where there were no people. In the middle of Uppsala, yeah I probably wouldn't have gotten that far. But still.

So in that sense I guess I kinda want to die. In the sense that I wish that I had died then and there. Still going over it in my memory, replaying every detail. How cold it was, how I sat there on the pier writing suicide notes to my mother, my boyfriend at the time, to my best friend and to the authorities; while eating a sandwich and downing pills with cheap wine, how I lied down and wrapped my leather coat closer to me.

And when that weird domestic worker from where I lived came by and started talking to me. He had a crush on me and wouldn't leave me alone. I lied there dying from suicide and he sat there unknowing, talking to me as if it was just another lovely day. I didn't have the guts to tell him to fuck off. He had just a few days earlier tried to kiss me, and I thought he must be very lonely, that not many people wanted to talk to him. He a was kind man of African heritage in his 50's or so, though I could only understand a few words of what he said with a broad accent. Can't even remember if we talked in Swedish or English. Can't remember what we said at all. You could say I had other things on my mind at the time. Though he was quite peculiar and I couldn't understand what he saw in a young androgynous goth with obvious mental problems.

When I think about that day, I think of a few parts of that memory more at one point, and other parts at another point. It's seldom I think about the whole day and following night. I don't remember at what time I went down to that pier, but I think it was around 6 or 7 pm. And I don't remember when I ended up in the hospital, but they were done at 3 am. So yeah, it was more a night than a day. Mostly I try to remember what I blacked out. The ride in the ambulance, what they said in the hospital, things like that. If I try hard, I can remember when they arrived at the apartment I lived in, and when they helped me down the stairs. But I must have passed out somewhere around there, cause the next thing I remember I'm on a gurney in the intensive care unit, and my memories from there on are very vague.

Why do I keep going on about this particular memory? It holds a certain significance, like the first time I was actually close to dying, so close that some days I even think that I actually did die that day. And I'm just a ghost now. Cause it feels like I am just a ghost and I've been so ever since then. And I can't let go.

So maybe that's why my twelfth suicide attempt doesn't bother me that much, cause of course I couldn't die, I'm already dead. Silly, really, cause I know that I'm still alive. Don't I...? No, I still doubt. There was a risk, but not so high, that I could have died that time too. When you stop breathing by your own hand, like I did, you pass out and let go of the grip, your body automatically starts breathing again. But it's not a 100% chance of it doing so. So that's what I mean, I could have died, but it wasn't likely, and I knew that. I knew that when I took that choice of trying it anyway. So I was more desperate to do it as soon as possible, and thought I'd give it a shot, even though I knew it wasn't likely going to work.

And maybe that is also why I don't think so much about that attempt. It was deadly, but my intentions were a bit wacky and so was my choice. It wasn't even thought through, but alas, my choices were a bit limited because I was in a mental institution.

My opinions about that ward sank a bit after that night. I mean come on, a patient of theirs tries to kill themselves and what do they do? They didn't even notice. I had a huge fucking wound across my neck and spoke with a sore voice that barely held and they didn't say anything. I eventually told them and what did they do? Nothing. So it wasn't so strange that I tried it again the next night. And again the night after that. And again. Four times all and all, until I just gave up on that. I'm just glad I didn't have a room mate!

So I never think about that, huh? I obviously do. But I don't even know half the stuff I'm thinking about, so I guess it just slipped my mind or something. It's so weird though, the psych wards just seem to get worse and worse. "Back in the day" when I was admitted as a minor in 2005 it was really good. They took good care of me and they noticed whenever I was upset, had cut myself or cried. In 2011 I was admitted thrice and they were from bad to worse, but at least they noticed if something was terribly wrong with me. This time... I had to become mute for them to even notice, but nothing bothered them. Not my muteness, not my self harm or my four suicide attempts.

I'm not trying to seek attention. Well, I do, but in the sense that I seek medical attention. That wasn't fake, anything that I did or that happened to me there. It was all real. And after all that had happened I wanted their attention so they could help me. But they couldn't. I hate that damn place, and I see no reason going back there. Everything is out of their jurisdiction and all they can do is talk and change my meds. I already have a psychiatrist, a shrink and a supportive mother, so what can they offer me that I don't already have? I was in for being suicidal, and I was very suicidal, and they couldn't even be on suicide watch. Couldn't help but wonder how many patients there had killed themselves. In that ward, in that room where I slept. It's not like in the movies, you should know.

I'm slightly obsessed with suicide I realise, especially my own futile attempts. This day disappeared too, it's dark for so long and so much these days. I went up at 8:00 after I had slept for 30 or so hours again. I don't remember when I went to bed, nor do I care. Around midnight to the 10th I think. I didn't really want to get up, but I couldn't sleep any longer and I thought that if I was gonna get up, I wanted it to be daylight. So I did get all daylight that I could today, yet it wasn't enough. I'm tired of all the darkness. Do you realise just how much darkness it is when you're awake around the clock and you only get 5 or 6 hours of light a day? Most of my time I write, listen to music, surf on the web, eat, drink coffee, embroider and so on in darkness. I barely turn off the lights before I have to turn them back on again.

Just made myself this insanely strong cup of coffee. I've had like two gulps and I feel dizzy. I bought these kind of powder cappuccinos you mix with hot water. Alright I took one of those in a smaller cup, and mixed in two spoons of regular instant coffee, more sugar and more cream. Like four cups in one! Now that oughta keep me up tonight.

I realise that I really like German as of lately, or for a few months or so now, and especially in music. Many nice industrial bands seem to have a few songs in German, so I whipped up a playlist for that on Spotify. I really do make playlists for everything, don't I? Well, every mood deserves its own music. And I still have many moods.

Maybe it's not so strange that I suddenly like German, cause that's the kind of language I like, in general I mean. Now "that kind of language" is a pretty loose concept when it comes to me. What I mean is hard consonants, powerful and a little complicated in a way. Like Russian, German or Czech. Not those generally considered "beautiful" languages like French or Spanish, that I can't say I like much at all, and I certainly don't find them to be beautiful. Just another thing people consider me to be weird because of. To me it isn't weird, merely uncommon perhaps.

Now I've written nearly half a novel for a blog entry, but I can't seem to write anything productive lately. My inspiration is on hold, but I know it will come back to me. It always does. Still I can't help but wonder why that is, why I've suddenly lost my inspiration. I wrote and created things before, when I was a wreck this summer, so it can't be that, or can it?

I'm more stable now, my mood is stabilised due to medication and oh, how damn much medication I take for my mood swings... 300 mg Lamotrigin and 200 mg Tergretol a day. So how stable am I really? Taking half a drug store every day just to keep me from going from super depressive to manic to agressive to scared shitless anxious fifty times a day. I'm still feeling a lot, not at all zombified and lethargic. I mean, I could even up the dosage further without reaching that state. Not that I need to though. Even I need to feel something every once in a while. And wow do I feel! But just that now my emotions are controllable, except from my undying love for my crush and my fear of sleep that is. How can I even feel so damn much anxiety every night with all that medication in my blood stream?!

However, even though I'm stabilised mood wise, I do doubt that I'm completely in my right mind now. I'm staying up for days in a row, then sleep for an entire day and so it goes on. I get super anxious every night because of a phobia of sleep. I cut every day (except when I sleep for a whole day that is) and deeper and more severe than ever so I'm constantly on a slight blood loss, smoke like a chimney and don't even care about quitting any more, live on microwave meals and don't care about eating healthy, I've stopped taking daily walks and I'm a caffeine addict.

So yeah... I'm medicated enough to appear more stable and together and all, while I'm actually breaking apart piece by piece. It's like my subconscious or something still knows I'm a wreck and will do any wacky thing I can come up with to simply stay alive. This is so ironic I don't even know where to begin. In order to stay alive I do every possibly damaging thing I can think of, or at least if you would sum up this whole last six months or so, that would really be the case. I've tried every possible dangerous, and even deadly thing I can think of really, and then I complain of why it's so hard to survive? I mean what the fuck is wrong with me?! The definition of crazy: can't think straight, like ever.

Wow, now I've really written half a novel...

Hating this addiction

I hate it that I cut so much nowadays. Hate it, hate it, hate it. Hate that I'm so dependent on it, that I can't hack it without it, no matter how much medicine I take (no, not over dosing). Fall in blood pressure, the fuck?! I haven't bled that much... or have I? I'm not counting it in millilitres, but it could have been a drip or two too much today. Damn it.

Also I'm a little anaemic all the time. Barely noticeable for a doctor, but I'm this hyper sensitive sort of person, so I notice it quite much. Besides, it's bright red leaning to pink in colour. So what I'm saying is that me bleeding just a little more than any other person would think is "not a big deal" could technically make me a little dizzy and cause fall in blood pressure. But I'll survive though, don't worry, I always do, don't I?

I'm fighting this war against myself, so much I'm really starting to wonder who the hell is gonna win. My body usually does, one way or another. There's only so long you can resist your body's needs until the body gets what it needs no matter the fuck what. Sleep deprivation? Crash on the floor 75 hours later. Starvation? Pass out wherever you happen to be after around 3 days. Blood loss? Faint. Over all the crashing part seem to be the first logical choice when I've been abusing my body to the absolute breaking point. Just "sobering up" no matter what shit I've been doing, seems to do the trick.

This anxiety is eating me alive, tearing my insides apart and I can't get rid of it. Like a virus infecting my every cell and fibre. For almost 24 hours I've been awake and roughly 20 of them have been riddled with anxiety. It glows in neon on my face. No it doesn't, none of my feeling ever show. Or at least very seldom unless I really want them to be seen.

I feel like I'm trapped in a maze and after looking for a way out for hours and hours I'm starting to try climbing up the walls. I don't know what to do with myself. It hasn't been this bad for a long time now. Or well, a few weeks tops, but still. I'm gonna stop saying "this fucking summer" and start saying "this fucking year" instead...

Chasing me

Seems the bad summer turned into a bad half-year. That sucks. October passed with depressive poems, lacerations and kilos of medication. Just like September, August, July, June, May and April did. What do I want to accomplish that I think these addictions will lead to? Nothing. Just my fucked up way of dealing with anxiety that is too heavy to carry.

Controlling the chaos with caffeine and cutting. I have to cut deeper than I dare for it to have a satisfying effect.

Trying to play WoW with a semi-broken keyboard is annoying the fuck out of me. So much for trying to blow off some steam... Spilled some lemonade on it yesterday or the day before, and now some of the keys are hell to press down. So I need to buy a new keyboard as well. Good thing I'm going to Visby later today.

I deliberately stayed up tonight, since I woke up so late yesterday it was kinda pointless to go to sleep again a few hours later. Feels good not having to think about sleeping, but as you can probably tell, I'm still not able to stop thinking about it. My anxiety has been growing, increasing and decreasing, changing shape and chasing me all day.* Don't know what it is I'm worrying about, what brings me down all the damn time, but I can tell there's more than just one reason, more than one simple answer. There's never a simple answer to anything, really. Especially in my life.

Still obsessing about my love, though more routine-like now. Internet stalking, or well, more lurking actually. That is less creepy, right? I'm trying to not be a creep. So tired, but can't sleep, I'm supposed to be in Visby 11 o'clock, to which it is only two hours. Or was it at 13 o'clock? I can't remember. Oh whatever, my mother will call me well before so I'll have time to get ready. Mom just call, so it's at 11:00.

*And it still does.

Power of gods

I'm taking too much sleeping pills now, cause I can't wake up in the morning, at noon, or in the afternoon. I didn't wake up today until my mother called me at ten in the evening. I'm spacing out the dosages too much, as I took the second Imovane at six this morning and it took two hours to reach full effect. The effect isn't supposed to last for twelve hours, so I can't conceive of why I couldn't wake up despite several alarms and the crew calling me multiple times. People must have almost declared me dead...

I can't remember if they went in to my apartment and woke me up that way though. It's possible, since that's what they're supposed to do. Besides, the lid to my cup of water at my bedside table was taken off but not put back on it, which I always do, so I have my suspicions that I actually did wake up and took my pills some time in the morning.

I'm thinking so much about self harm and preferably cutting these days. It can't be healthy. Thinking about it, I mean, though I'm sure the act of doing it isn't so healthy either. It's like I'm triggering myself. Right now I'm in an uneven state of anxiety and hopelessness, it's scratching and tearing inside me, and alternative rock band Manic Street Preachers from Cardiff in Wales takes the edge off it. I remember they were a part of a question/quiz in the Swedish tv-show "På spåret" a year or so ago, and I was the only one in my family who could answer them. Got no credit for it though.

Sad to say though, I discovered this band after looking up famous people who self harm, and found out their former guitarist Richey Edwards was one of them.

I got "homework" from the smoking cessation doctor I saw yesterday. I'm supposed to write down a little information about every cigarette I smoke until our next meeting in a week or so. Like when I lit up, what I'm doing at that time, what I feel and how important I find the cigarette to be. Taken three in the last hour, so I think there will be a lot of scribbling on that sheet. I'm back to chain smoking again... Damn this anxiety is intolerable.

That relieved the pressure, doing a satanic ritual at this midnight, Halloween. Ain't no better day for it, right? It was quite powerful, and not just that the wind started blowing outside my window as I preprepared the ritual and it increased during it to suddenly just calm down again right after - but the power in the words (Enochian, I think) as I read them out loud, over and over I read them, and the power I felt grew stronger each time. Just wow... It felt like the god above tried to interfere, even though that might sound stupid in a way. I suddenly feel more religious than ever before in my life.