When nothing else matters

I start missing K again as the soft and hard tones of Alice Cooper's song "Die for you" streams through my headphones. I don't know why I can't feel anything. Suddenly, all my feelings just blew away and left me empty.

It's not just a crush, I'm in love with him. I'm deeply lovesick and every passing day I'm thinking that this can kill me. I'm so scared of acting upon an impulsive suicide that these feelings one day, possibly, in all likelihood, will lead me to.

I'm empty, as sadness hollows me out from within until there's nothing left but a shell. I can't cry anymore, it was months, 7 or 8 months ago last time and years before that. Hell is living without him and I forgot why I'm alive in the first place, if not to be with him. I forget all other reasons to go on living, and that... that is lovesickness. When fucking nothing else matters.

And it's hard just to breathe. Cause every time I breathe in I think of him and every time I breathe out I try to stop thinking about him. Cloud my mind with thoughts on having children instead. Try to make him matter less by shadowing and dulling the thoughts about him with something else. But it doesn't work, not really.

It's like putting on sunglasses hoping the sun will stop shining. Or lighting a candle hoping the darkness will go away forever. It won't. Deep down I know that it won't. No matter how many candles I light, darkness will always be there.

And so will he. Lost in my mind, locked inside my heart, frozen in my soul. The day I let him into my soul I knew he was gonna stay there forever, that it was somehow an ancient form of commitment on only my part that I could never get out of.

I committed to this, he didn't. He's out there, somewhere in the world, miles and miles away and I can pretend that the more time passes the easier it will get, but it won't. It fucking won't, I will end up committing suicide if he never talks to me again. And you know what? It's only my own fucking fault, it was never his fault.

I would never blame him, but knowing that he would likely blame himself if or when I do such a thing, I try to hold on. I try to hold on to this life of endless misery and heartbreak upon heartbreak until I literally can't stand up anymore. Did you know that I've had my heart broken 9 times?

The first and the last was worst. Person A was first and they weren't even real. I fell blindly for an imaginary person and then somehow my heart broke and I hurt so badly. I started cutting myself, had worse dissociations, tried to kill myself for the first time. I was 15 years old.

Last was person T and he was at least real. I literally fell for him at first sight, it took me around 15 minutes to fall to somewhere underneath the classroom floor. I was 21 years old. After he rejected me, I tried to kill myself 5 times the following year and spent about 2 months altogether at various psychiatric wards. I could not be helped.

So believe me when I say, love fucking kills you. If you let it, I suppose. Maybe I didn't have much to live for before I fell for all those people. Men, women, anyone. I count them on my fingers and I have only 1 finger left. Right pinky, will I die when I have to bend you down too?

Cause how much heartache can I possibly take? How much more darkness, how much more insufferable pain, before I finally succeed what I've tried to do 15 times already? It's my rap sheet, my curse, and to love K forever just like I promised myself and all of my stupid diaries.

I can't take much more of this. It's been 36 days and not a word. I'm counting the days, literally. Every morning I wake up I count, 34, 35, 36... for how long? For how long, until I die? I don't plan suicide, I don't want it, but whether I do or not I'm a danger to myself and my pain takes me places I didn't intend to visit. If I die this year, please never tell him that I died for him. I don't want him carrying that burden.

But I'll try, I'll keep on trying to stay strong. It's just a little too much right now and my appointments in Visby are far from enough to get everything said and discussed. There's Anna, school, eating disorder, lovesickness, dreams, parenthood, and I know that the topic of suicide should be first on the list, but I can't make myself mention it.

Simply, I don't want to end up at that ward again with all my privacy robbed and no access to my computer. I wouldn't go freely, they'd have to force me and it could get ugly. But yeah, those thoughts have been lingering their way back to me again, although I try to force them away again. I can't deal, I just can't fucking deal with this.

Under my skin, and closer

I'm standing on the border between living my life and giving it all up completely. I live my life, but only partially. I try to hope for a better future that would include K at least in some way or another. I try not to give up on that. But some things I have given up on.

Everything feels shallow, hollow and empty. Meaningless, colourless, tasteless, muted and dimmed. Everything except K, who is like a splash of vibrant colours, black and white. He's my saviour, the only reason that I still haven't given up completely, he's what keeps that small spark in me alive. Snuff it out, and I'll be dead.

I'm hanging by a thread, and it breaks a little more the more time passes and the less that happens. As he shies away from me, and I try to move in closer but get ignored or rejected. As he's getting worse and sicker and closer to his own death, I'm getting closer to mine. I'm synced with him, as I fall down when he does, but sometimes I also do that on my own. It feels as if I'm suffering for two people.

I carry his burden, whether I want to or not, and whether he wants me to or not. It's just the way it is. It's heavy, that burden. So many unsolved issues and issues that most likely can never be solved. Though some can, and all I can do is to pray that he will one day accept help for them, so that he can get better. First of all I just want for him to not suffer, secondly I wish I didn't have to suffer for him and thirdly, I wish I didn't have to suffer at all.

Because both our miseries are linked, as I tear apart whenever he does, probably even when none of us are aware of it. And I want to believe, that whatever I'm feeling all on my own, affects him too somehow. Cause I know that he cares, he's just not that good of showing it at all times. But I know that he does. Cause we talk about me too, and not just about him. I think that at least some part of him wants to be there for me as well, although it is hard for him.

And I respect that and I understand it too, even though we aren't that alike in that area. I'm too shying away when I feel down, but not always, and never from him. He does, he shies away from everyone when he's feeling down, even me. And I hate that, cause for once I just wish he needed me as much as I need him. That we could somehow comfort each other, or anything.

It drives me mad, when he goes into solitude, because all I want to do is to hold him and comfort him. But I want what's best for him, I try to be accepting and do as he wants me to: to stay away. He's hard to love. I always feel so very inadequate and maybe that's because I am, because anyone and everyone is. And I know that no matter how much I truly do love him, it is not in my power to heal him. No matter how fucking much I want to.

And it scares me. It scares me to the brink of falling to pieces every day and night. I hold on for him, I have to. I'll stand by his side forever and ever, and I just want him to know that I care with all of my broken heart and homesick soul, that he's my top priority, the love of my fucking life and most certainly worth fighting for. It's worth the chaos, the confusion, all the time in the world and strength that I don't even know how to summon. But I can't, I just can't let him in on that.

Afraid to scare him away with my otherworldly feelings. Afraid he'll take off and leave me. Afraid he wouldn't even believe me. Afraid he'd somehow take it negatively. That all along I had an agenda, to snare him or something. I don't know what exactly it is that I'm so afraid of. That he'd be scared of me and what I feel for him.

All I know, is that I have to tell him before it's too late, but not too early. It's been almost 2 years of crazy affections, and almost 1 year since I sort of got him on the hook, or what to say. Slowly and carefully I've been trying to show him my world and invite him in. Trying to make him let me into his. I've been aching, longing, wanting, dreaming and hoping for so long now it's like I've forgotten what it was like to not be in love with him.

I want to experience everything I do, think and feel with him. I want to live under the same roof as him, share my whole life with him. I want for him to be a part of everything I am and do. And I also want to be a part of everything he is and does. I want him under my skin, and to be under his skin. That close, as close and intimate as you can possibly be with another person. Physically, yes, but mostly emotionally and mentally.

That is the kind of life that I want to live. That is what I think is worth fighting for, or anything between now and that perfect state. Anything, even the smallest something is worth to go on breathing for. To be just one tiny step closer to him, even for just a minute, or a split second. It could be anything. Simply chatting about ordinary/the usual stuff, or holding his hand, seeing him IRL again and hug him, talking on the phone with him, kissing him, knowing he read a poem that I wrote about/for him, watching a movie together, drinking together, anything really.

It's all worth living, and surviving for. It's all worth fighting for. But sometimes I think I'm fighting a bit too much. It's not a game and I'm not supposed to force him into anything. I should rather ask and accept no for an answer. I just crave it so desperately and want it before we die: closeness with him, any form of intimacy, to let him know how much I love him; even if he wouldn't believe me, even if he would freak out or just not know what to say or do in response. I need for him to know, partially because I want to get it off my chest and also partially, because I want him to know that he's not forgotten, rejected or unlovable.

I really do think he might need to hear it, to know it, even if he won't believe it. Because maybe someday he will then. But all I can give him is time. I try not to overwhelm him. I try to keep it calm and light and worth both of our time. I try to draw it out, letting it out little by little in small gestures that he might or might not pick up on.

I move in closer, then back away to not overwhelm him and to give him space. I try to take a bit of a distance, but it's the hardest thing to do when you're dying to get closer than you've ever been.

Ten years

It's quite an anniversary in January for me. I don't remember exact dates but it will be exactly 10 years ago that I: got depressed and stopped practising karate, got my chronic tension headache that's been with me ever since, started cutting myself, had my heart broken for the first time, realised that I'm transgender, the voice in my head became my enemy for the first time and I really started to fail in school.

January 2005 was probably the worst month in my life. And then followed a decade of pain and misery. I can honestly say, in a month, that I've been in this misery for a full decade. There's something oddly comforting in that. Something that makes me smile, a bitter smile, but I can't put my finger on exactly what that is.

I discovered a lot about myself that year, 2005 and in the end of 2004. About who I really am, everything from sexuality to the deepest, darkest secrets I will never reveal. I got in contact with the psychiatry for the first time that following summer, or maybe it wasn't until the fall, I don't remember the details. No cross that, I can only remember the details, not the big picture.

To be honest I never thought I'd live this long, not 10 years ago when I was diagnosed with Asperger, made my first 2 suicide attempts, got borderline psychotic and swore that I couldn't survive without the razor blades. When the war in my head became both mental and physical. When I tried to study in another city and it failed so miserably, I think I dissociated for 3 months. I had so much pressure on myself, I wanted to live a normal life with the abnormal brain that I had.

I was 16 years old through most of 2005 and I will turn 26 in April next year. 10 years have almost passed now and it does feel rather unreal. Maybe that's why I'm smiling and shaking my head - in disbelief. For all that's happened since then. Since I fell down a dark hole and I haven't been able to climb out of it.

I just kept hitting new bottoms and falling into more darkness, I never had a chance to learn how to live, and somewhere in that maze, I forgot to care. About life, about learning. All that mattered was surviving and sometimes dying, escaping that maze. Now, it's like I've reached another bottom and instead of trying to climb out I've accepted my cruel destiny and I've made myself an almost cosy home down here.

I'm no longer trying to learn how to live or fight for my sorry life. I say let it come and kill me, I don't care. Maybe I'm only still seeing my shrink for outward appearances, to make people believe that I still care about getting better. I can't get better, 10 bloody years down the line, it's fair to say that I'm a hopeless case. I wouldn't know what or who I am without the darkness. Maybe I wouldn't even like that person?

I'm not fighting anymore, but somehow I still don't think I've truly given up. I just let it have at it while I'm taking a forever long cigarette break and just won't go out into battle again. I'm sorry for all the metaphors, I really don't know how else to say it. That I don't care what happens to me now, that this ED, this chronic headache, my self harm and what more and what not, can kill me if they want to. I'm just here for the show. I'm not scared anymore. I'm not scared of dying, I'm not scared of living.

Is that bad? That I'm completely just giving into madness and let it ravage me however it pleases to? Maybe after 10 years I've only come to learn one thing, and that is that it can always get worse. And worse it gets. It's changed me, but I've forgotten who I was before.

The ghosts in my mind

I'm feeling misplaced. Like I'm supposed to be somewhere I can't remember, like I'm supposed to do something, be something that I cannot become, have something I cannot retrieve. I feel so lost. Wandering, echoing like a shadow in the distance. Floating, detached, lonely. I don't feel like myself at all. Where am I? Who am I?

How much better am I really? I can't tell what's real anymore, I still can't differ dream from reality, am I dreaming? Maybe it's not my dreams that are so real, but my reality that is so dream-like. I can't put my feet down, it's like I can't feel the earth no matter how far down I try to reach. Do you ever get that feeling, like you're so detached you've forgotten how to re-attach yourself?

I wonder. Am I happy somewhere inside, am I really gonna give life a chance? Yes, to the latter. But I don't know how. I know what I need to do but I just can't. Can't, can't, can't, can't. I'm so scared I don't know what I should do. What would be right, should I try to hold on without help? I can't keep this up much longer. If I don't act, I'm afraid I'll fall apart again.

But that's the thing: I know I have to fall apart again, really hard, for the doctors to take me seriously, for them to understand how fucking serious this is. And I'm depending on their understanding, I always have been. I'm depending on their opinion because how else are they gonna help me? But I'm afraid it will be too late by then.

That I know I will need to stress myself enough to trigger a psychotic episode, get into the emergency psychiatric ward again and then get some sort of diagnosis and help. It's a sick world we live in, believe me, but I do know the psychiatric system pretty well by now. I've been involved in it for ten years after all. I know that is the only way, to let them see it with their own eyes.

When that day comes, whenever that will be. I have a sensation that it will be sooner than I can wait. I don't think I'll die from it though. No, what I fear is worse than death. Death would be freeing, a solution to an endless problem. What I fear is imprisonment in my own mind. That I will make it worse by not getting any treatment for it. It started already about a year ago, (not counting in Anna) and though I have been feeling fine in longer periods of time, it has struck me out of the blue several times and I just had to pretend it was just anxiety, worry, too many "thoughts" (yes, read voices) and that my actions were self harm alone.

Cause it wasn't, you know. I have come to my doctor saying I have anxiety when I was delusional and fearful of things that weren't there. I have harmed myself to get rid off bugs crawling under my skin, worms in my eyes and mysterious tingling feelings allover my body. I told people that my head was filled with more thoughts than usual when it was voices I was hearing. Even in a meeting I had to bite my lips hard to not scream at the voices to shut the fuck up because I couldn't hear what my doctor was saying.

Desperately popping more pills in an attempt to control all those things, thinking more anxiolytics could control my fear of the scary unknown territory of my own mind. My head hurts like hell, I can't stop chain smoking and I just took some Zyprexa. But does it help? Well, it does sometimes, for a little while. Zyprexa is also an antipsychotic medication, I can't do much else than hoping it has some effect on my ghosts. Shit, I really need to get to a doctor... hopefully I can hold on until June, it's not so long after all, just a few weeks...

The darker half

I had a meeting with that welfare officer again today, and I was pretty blunt with her. She noticed my personality change and said I was different this time. I don't know what to think of that, didn't think it was actually that noticeable.

Anyway, I finally asked her why we're having these meetings, what's her role in this whole deal. She said my doctor (who left me) wanted me to have someone to check up on me meanwhile I'm waiting for another doctor. Especially regarding self harm and suicidal thoughts. She got worried, that welfare officer, that I wasn't gonna see my shrink until August again. I told her I could just get in contact with my shrink whenever if I needed her. She still didn't want to let go of me.

Fucking cunt, I despise her. I don't need more people who think they need to look after me. My whole life is care takers and shrinks and doctors and I'm so sick of it. So sick of being treated like I'm a fragile little glass doll. I might not be able to take care of myself, but I'm very capable of making my own decisions.

I'm on a waiting list to see my new doctor, which will probably be sometime in June. I really need to see her, cause I think I need to up my Abilify, but don't know how to handle that. I need it for my psychotic tendencies, but I can't mention that. Seriously, I'm shifting personalities and seeing signs and messages everywhere. I'm on the brink again and I really don't want to fall down into that black abyss again.

So I don't know how to handle that. I finally succeeded to get antipsychotic drugs, but they're not doing shit and I can't tell doctors that I'm psychotic. Someone please kill me now... I don't know how much longer I can handle this on my own.

Shit, I'm still the dark me and I can't shift back. What if one day I get stuck like this? If I one day can never shift back? I realise that when I was reckless and didn't care about anyone, when I had thoughts of cannibalism and murder with sociopathic tendencies, when I was cold and heartless: I was the dark me. I don't want to fully become that. It scares me. Maybe I have no reason to worry, but it still scares me.

Even if I don't need to worry, I still believe there is a small chance of that to happen. I've heard about it before, in other people's cases. So I have heard about it before then? Not necessarily personality shifts as such, but of people who have been through traumas that they start to shut down eventually, gradually, until they're not themselves anymore. I'm afraid of that happening to me.

I'm just making it worse by not doing anything about it. I'm getting desperate. I'm not even sure that antipsychotic drugs can help me with that. I need to talk it out with my shrink, but first I need to survive the summer and the autumn and possibly the winter as well. Yeesh, things are going so damn slow and I'm falling so fast.

I really hoped I could meet them in Huddinge and fill out the papers for Rättsliga Rådet already this summer, but of course they're all on leave/vacation. I really hoped I could get my gender reassigned before the autumn, but no. And then things will take even longer after that. I have don't have all the time in the world, okay? Don't think they realise that, cause I won't tell them why. Just hurry the fuck up you fuckers, I don't wanna be stuck like this forever.

Worth living for

I wish the crew would stop complimenting my hair. Seriously, they've been doing that almost constantly from when I started bleaching it in January. Sure I like getting a compliment every so often, but this is getting ridiculous. What are they trying to achieve? Making me indescribably happy?

I started to scratch myself uncontrollably under the bandage early this morning, half not aware of what I was doing. Not supposed to do that, and I know that in an awaken state, but it's different when I'm half asleep.

I do all sorts of things that I wouldn't normally do then. It's strange, but also understandable. That I'm less inhibited in a way. But it's annoying when I do things that might interfere with the healing process.

My muscles are sore after yesterday's work out. It's annoying and the part I dislike most about exercising. Not quite enjoying it the way most people seem to do. So I'm gonna take it easy today, just gonna have a little walk soon enough. Need to buy vegetables, bread and cigarettes. Mostly it hurts in my shoulders and arms, so a walk couldn't possibly hurt. Not that it would either way though.

But despite the pain it still feels good to finally have gotten myself to the gym. Only took me about three years... Seriously, I think the last time I set my foot in such a place was in Gottsunda during 2011. But then I lived in my parents' house for a year after that, and there were no gyms or likewise facilities nearby. And then I just talked about it for almost two years.

I really hope I'll keep this up now and not get lazy again. As of now my motivation is on top, but of course it can change with time. So hoping it won't. I just won't allow myself to give up again, cause I so need to live now. More than just being alive, I need to actually live my life. It would be so pointless otherwise. Like just wasting air instead of using it, or taking up space instead of needing it.

Living without hopes must be the most painful thing I've ever experienced. What people say isn't possible, that you'd always have hopes left if you're still breathing, but it's not true. I'm living proof that isn't true. But now I have hopes, lots of hopes and dreams and goals in life. Still scared to fail them, still overly cautious about them and always watching my step so that I won't shatter them. But they keep me alive, cause now I depend on them.

Wishes and wisdom

I just saw this episode of Torchwood, one of them that I remembered most vividly from the first time I saw the whole series. In that episode there's a device that can show you glimpses of the past, the future or your own death. It just shook me so strongly this time, something Jack said, but I can't remember it now. I remember thinking that was a cool device to have first time I saw that episode years ago, but now... all I could think of is all the despair such a device could bring mankind.

Perhaps I am too old for this young body, cause I always seem to recognise myself the most in fictive characters who are way old, immortal. Characters like Jack Harkness, vampires, wizards, ghosts and so on. I don't even know if I'm that wise or anything, it's more of a vague sensation. That I know stuff I'm not supposed to, like I know too much, about things a 24 year old shouldn't.

I wouldn't consider myself that old, not in my mind at least. It's more like I've transcended age completely and now I'm neither young nor old, beyond time. And maybe that's why I my conception of time is so fucked up, why I take things so slow and can keep calm in situations others panic over. It's like I just know without knowing what it is that I know; does that make any sort of sense at all? That things will sort themselves out eventually and turn out the way they're supposed to, no matter what you do.

Those things that I know I don't know how to share, because either no one's listening, or it's something they have to find out for themselves. Mostly it's the latter, and some things I don't want anyone else to find out. Not that I want to keep anyone in the dark about it, it's just that it's most likely too much to handle. You know I've been struggling with it. The meaning of life, how I'm gonna die, things about how time works, memories from past lives and so on.

I'm divided, if I would want to keep my knowledge as it is or to never have gained it in the first place. It's an awful burden, yet a wonderful gift. Not very comforting and terribly upsetting. But also an asset and helpful in understanding the world and to accept it as it is.

Some things I have already accepted. Like that life is unfair and that I can't possibly stop myself from killing myself that one day when it will happen, hopefully far in the future. So yeah, I think I have accepted my self fulfilling prophecy, cause there's really no way around it. Somedays it's hard though, thinking that it's like I'm trapped in a maze with only one horrible way out of it. Cause how can I make myself die in another manner than suicide? I can't. My fate is sealed. So why not accept it?

I'm finally gonna try and live my life to the fullest at the best of my ability. I'm gonna get my gender reassigned legally, finish writing my autobiography, change the way I look, get my damn tattoos even if I'll need to steal money to afford them, drive a car, travel to London and all the little things on that endless list of things to do before I die.

Everyone should do that, no matter if you are/think you are going to die sooner than you hope for or not. Everyone should try their best to live their lives to the fullest. I'll hit you if you don't agree with me on that point! I just hope I'll actually do it this time, but I think so, cause never before has it felt this real. The cruelty of the prophecy and the vitality of life itself awakening within me. I think it's a good balance, as good as it can get. That I want to live and that more than ever, at the same time as I'm terrified to die before I'm done living, if you know what I mean. Life and death is cruel and unfair, but I can't let that ruin me. I can hope and dream, carefully so, but I can't change what's beyond me.

I just hope that I'll be able to continue like this, with this urge in me to change things to the better, with a will to live instead of just a will to escape anything related to living in the real world. Just wish that I won't fall back into the darkness.

All the time

My anxiety is not gone. There's something else causing it instead, but it feels the same. Yeah, my body is always making the same anxiety overload signals no matter what the reason is. The reason is unimportant. Just for once I don't give damn why I feel like shit from morning to midnight. Cause I take care of one thing and then the next thing is causing the same problem, and then the next, and then the next. Like fighting off vermin on a frigging farm and your carrots still get eaten.

My ways of dealing with this anxiety goes from bad to good to bizarre. The good is focusing on breathing, make sugar cake and things like that. The bad is drinking obscene amounts of coffee and beating myself up. The bizarre ways of dealing with anxiety would be, for instance, making it worse on purpose. Or masking it with anxiety over something else. Like doing dungeons in WoW just for "the thrill" of it. It's like fighting fire with fire. Well, if you're running out of water you have to think of another way to put out the fire, or watch your house burn to the ground, right?

Every day I wake up with anxiety tearing a hole in me, so I'd rather keep on sleeping until the sun goes down. Eventually I do get up, but it takes tremendous efforts. And then the anxiety keeps wrapping itself tighter around me, it's like it's choking me.

Right now... I don't know. Just need to get through what I can't seem to get through. I mean, of course I survive it, but it never goes away. Ever. I don't know what to do. I don't want to, and I seriously can't, take pills for it every time. It's just like my headache now, there is no "every time" it is all the time. Constantly. When I decide to take Zyprexa the anxiety only goes away for as long as the drug's effect lasts. Then as it fades away, my anxiety is taking over again. In order to stay "free" from anxiety I would have to take about ten doses of Zyprexa a day. Can't do that, won't do that.

It's for the same reason I can't take pain killers every time I get a headache. I don't want to become a drug addict, I have enough problems already. But I can't live in pain either. Survive, yes. But live? It's hard to compare physical pain to mental pain, but if I should, then I say mental pain is the worst. I don't know why, but I think it might be because mental pain is affecting the whole lot of you in a non scientific sort of way. Like it consumes you, becomes you.

The advice my shrink would give me is to let go and not do anything. But if I was to do that, I'd probably be sitting in a wardrobe and rocking myself. And no, that isn't so far off, cause I actually happen to do that sometimes. Perhaps not both at once, or for a long time, but I like sitting in a dark wardrobe, perfectly still, so still that I can't feel my body. It's like I sort of... disappear.

Wake up, society!

I started writing about something else when I came up with this text, so if the beginning here looks a little weird, that is probably why. I'm not even trying to make this text simple and easy to read, you just have to try to tag along with my fairly complicated and just a tad bit too long sentences. You should appreciate it that I for once write from my heart.

I can recite my whole life from my first memory when I was two years old the very first summer I had when me and my parents moved to Alunda in 1991, up until this day. Cause I did, you know, in my autobiography, and it's all there. Or almost all of it, it's not quite finished yet.

The one book I will leave behind me the day I die. Yes, that is my plan. To write it, polish it and finish it, print it out, but leave it here on my desk safe and sound, until that day comes. Cause I will reveal way too much that I don't want anyone to know until I'm not around here anymore. It will also be my final say, my suicide note.

Not to be like that, but that book would most likely make me kinda famous, if I'd be alive to see it or if it get published after my death, or published at all that is. It will be one of a kind, I can assure you. The life of a young man who lived for a whole lifetime and experienced so much, but still somehow managed it. It's tragic, cause I really wanted that book to inspire people who also have a shitty life, a message to them that you can get through life even though you are miserable and have all the reasons to "justify" a suicide. It's tragic, because at the end of the book, I will actually have died from suicide.

I don't want to be famous, you know, at least not for all those stupid reasons today's youth seek fame. But if I would want to to become famous, it would be for that I inspire people to cherish life, seek wisdom and don't give a damn fuck what other people think you should do with your life. To inspire people to not give up on their seemingly impossible dreams even when your loved ones tell you to get real and grow up cause you're supposed to be a "valuable member of society".

Well, let me tell you this: you don't own society anything! You didn't ask to be born, you're not a slave to man made rules, you haven't signed any contract with your own blood. You were born to be you, to make your life valuable to you and no one else, and to survive at the best of your ability.

Now I doubt these words will at all help, and I know there are a lot of people out there who don't agree with me about said words and all of what I will be writing from here on in this entry. It's all about "get an education, grown up, get a job, fold your laundry, grow up, move out and did I mention grow up?!" nowadays. It's sad, it truly is.

I think about slavery. Harsch, perhaps, but that is the way society is going, in case you haven't noticed. Today's youth come off as lazy, despondent and that their lives are practically meaningless unless they take up that mop and clean the damn floors already or they won't get food on their tables. See what I mean?

I realise, cause I'm not that daft, that society is ruled by money and independence above all else. Being dependent is being a burden, living on social welfare is basically stealing other people's tax money, and crashing on your parents sofa until you're 35 isn't very productive - but just hear me out, okay? Complaining about having to abide to society's structured "rules" isn't about being lazy.

I'm walking on that thin line between being mentally disabled and just a lazy brat, but I'm not blind or stupid enough to not realise that I am privileged cause I don't need a job or pay for my own flat. What I want is for everyone, not just young people, to stop shoving it into your own and other peoples faces that you are useless in society. You don't have to be a good citizen for your life to matter.

I'm quite a heavy burden for this society. I live on your tax money, so indirectly it's YOU who pay for my rent, my clothes, food and cigarettes. I can't really afford much else cause the payment I get is minimum wage. I take a lot of prescription drugs, and the state pays for most of it (cause högkostnadsskydd, you know) and the same with almost all of my psychiatric hospital visits. If that wasn't enough I live under LSS as you all know, which means that I have people who have it as their job to do my dishes and help me clean up my mess. Literally.

But do I feel guilty? Hardly. Do you know why? Because it is my right as a member of society to get the help that I need in order to survive. The privilege, is that I'm sick enough to get that help, but others who also suffer might not be, and they die because society won't help them.

People who have had the guts to confront me about my way of living (most just give a friendly pat on my shoulder and tell me not to worry, it's gonna work out in the end for me as well, but I appreciate it when people are honest with me, so don't take this wrong) have asked me what I really want to do with my life. I don't quite understand that question, to be perfectly honest. I'm not halfway anywhere, I'm doing all that I can and sometimes more when I have the strength to. I've survived numerous of suicide attempts, mental torment and a disabling headache for a decade, I can just barely stay above the surface most days, but I still try my best to pursue my long term goals and dreams.

People seem to just assume that I want a job like I'm supposed to. Make my own money the way I'm supposed to. And what if I don't want that? It doesn't matter how damn drunk you are if you ask a person that sort of question, you should fucking respect an honest answer: no I don't, and you can't argue with that. I don't want to work for money, because doing some shit job where someone tells me what to do, just to get a pay check at the end of the month, just isn't my cup of tea.

If I would ever have a job, it would be something that I enjoy. I don't mean a paid full-time vacation, I mean an actual profession that doesn't make you long for Fridays and hate Mondays. Now, I don't technically need a job of any kind, but that's beside the point. It truly is, because the message I want to get out is this: if you can avoid the responsibilities society has handed out for you, fucking do it.

Maybe you don't want to be role model of the year, famous or even the slightest bit of a rebel, but not wanting to be a part of this slavery doesn't make you lazy. That, is what truly makes you an individual. To be able to step aside and take another road to the same goal we are all aiming for: to be happy.

I wish someone could actually listen to me, when I say you don't have to flip burgers in order to survive, there are other options. There truly are. Just open your eyes and see that there is a whole world in front of you.

What matters most

Ever since I got the news about that the surgery finally actually will happen, I've sensed a small glimpse of hope for my future. That suddenly everything doesn't look all too dim and dark. I know it won't bring me happiness (that is a very strong word, and I don't think any human being is truly happy). But I do think it will make me more complete, that it will boost my self esteem massively, that by removing one problem is a huge step to something that could one day lead to something close to happiness.

I guess you could compare it to people becoming parents for the first time: you know it's not gonna cure you, make you instantly happy or that all your problems will go away. But you know it will bring you joy and a sense of fulfilment. Something that you truly want, a decision that will forever change your life.

That's a little how I see it right now. I don't think I've been more positive about anything before. Not like this at least. I hate rules and being told what to do, yet here I am carefully following all the requirements for the surgery. I'm in constant pain that I choose to endure without pain killers because I can't take Treo or Bamyl. I'm forcing myself to quit smoking in a week even though I really love smoking. I'm risking everything, it feels like I'm risking everything for that surgery.

Well, I kinda knew it

Arghhh, I knew it wouldn't be that easy with the surgery, I just knew it! Just spoke to them yesterday and everything seemed fine, they were just gonna send some information papers. The things mentioned in them (just got the papers) are things I was supposed to have done two weeks before the surgery. They should have sent me a frigging time machine as well! Fuck!

Now I'm having doubts they will take me in on Tuesday... I soooo want it done and then all this crap comes up and things just got really complicated. I'm still smoking and I took salicylic acid (Treo) which is thinning my blood, I could bleed to death in there. Damn, I thought things were going a bit too well...

Just raging now. I put my mother on the phone with them cause I just can't stop shaking, could barely even hold the phone when I spoke to my mother and my voice was trembling. Now I just have to wait for her call and my final judgement. Fit for surgery or not?

I could probably have lied a little if I could muster calling them myself, but I don't know if that would have been to my winning. If my bad habits can kill me on that table or lead to horrible complications it wouldn't be worth it, no matter how damn much I want that surgery.

Being healthy isn't exactly easy for me. I'm a ball of anxiety and reach for anything, however destructive I can, just to survive. They should have told me these things long before, already at the consultation in August. What is it with people not giving out information in time, just expecting everyone to know that stuff? I've never had surgery before, I didn't know anything of that.

Still waiting for my mother call back, and I can't calm down. I'm hysteric, allover the place and can't even breathe right. I need to eat, need to go to the drug store. Need a shower. Close the window, but even that I can't muster. Just writing, only writing and smoking. Rocking myself as I lose sensation in my fingers due to the coldness in here. Just breathe damn it, just breathe...

I didn't know this was gonna come up. All I got was a vague feeling there could be a problem. A very vague feeling. Why can't these stupid instincts work when I really need them?!

What we live on

I have never heard of the English word "agape" before. Apparently it's some form of love. I find it a beautiful word. Think I'll keep it. I have collected quite a few words now that I find extra appealing. Some are ordinary while others are not: sovereign, downtrodden, fanciful, hindsight, seep, sift, solace, insipid, disdain, whimsical, livid, sobriety, murmuring, reminiscent, limerence, tarnished, delirium, gash, laceration, suicide, mere, linger, gloom, wolfs-bane, slender, lithe, ardour and now agape.

I think I'm just trying to convince myself that I'm not just wasting time, that I actually do live a little. That it's not just "nothing" that I'm doing in my timeless loneliness. Time is all I have. I have 24 hours every day to find something I want to do and do it. There's no pressure, no deadlines, no demands but my own.

Well, I am sort of retired, and you know how most old people who's stopped working spend their days. They too have all the time in the world to just do whatever they find is meaningful to them. Of course, it's never literally "all the time in the world". Retired elders might not have a long time ahead of them because of their age, and I don't have all the time because I'm a mess with an expiration date.

Many people seem to think I want to have a job like everyone else, but the truth is that I don't. I'm not saying I wanna live on social welfare for the rest of my life, I'm just saying that the expected way of living is kinda repulsive to me. I'm a rebel, not because I want to, but because there is no other way.

It could be nice to have a part time job, something simple and creative without a lot of pressure on me, while still getting paid for all the time that I don't work. Like part time retired and part time working, if you get what I mean. But the thing is that I'm very, very picky about what kind of work I could do. First of all, all the service professions are out of the question. So are dirty jobs like cleaning or construction.

And then there's that it's not so much that I can handle mentally. When I get put into pressure, however small or little, my mind goes into overdrive and basically all of my mental problems exceed beyond reason.

Worst is the combination of extreme headache, panic attacks, dissociation, delusions and voices talking so loud that I can't hear what anyone else says. You wouldn't want me at a "normal" workplace. I get severe stress symptoms close to psychosis in a matter of minutes, no matter how medicated I am.

Oh, well. Work is overrated. Besides, I do spot quite some ambivalence among those people promoting working for money. They say it's important and meaningful to them and what not. But then there is this Monday-hate and Friday-love, which totally makes me wonder what's so fantastic about working five days a week, if you just wanna get back home again.

I could never do that, force myself to a workplace where I don't find the work I do meaningful or rewarding in some other way than pay-checks. In a way that really says something about how high I value my life. That I'm not willing to waste it on a boring day to day job, just because I "have to" or that it's expected from me. That it has to be meaningful if not entertaining, something that can make me grow as a person.

Another thing is that despite the fact that I'm scared I'm gonna kill myself in the sort of near future, I don't want to rush into things. Even if I don't have enough time to get a job like that before I kill myself, at least I don't wanna waste the little time I got left on a shit job. I'd rather be living on social welfare with minimum wage for the rest of my tragically short life. Because it's really not that bad.

What I'm trying to survive

Starting to get more tired now, feeling as though I can never fully rest. All there is now is worry, nightmares, anxiety, sadness and self harm. What my lonely days and nights stand on, balancing on this rumbling foundation. Sleep and food come second, if even that. To me, survival is much more than just that, it's about surviving my own mind.

Cause no matter what you believe, the mind controls everything. It controls what you eat, when you sleep, everything you actively do, think and feel. If you have no control over your mind, you have no control over your life.

I'll try whatever means possible, and I have tried every means possible. Good, bad and those somewhere in between. Everything from music or walking, to coffee or drugs and all the other things I can't remember right now. The list is endless.

One good thing about me being suicidal and all, is that I feel as though I have nothing to lose. I can try those stupid but probably good advices and tips that will most likely only make things worse or become a disappointment, cause it doesn't matter if I fail.

I told my shrink, when I saw her yesterday, about this ticking bomb inside me. Figuratively, the "bomb" that I believe is waiting to explode, yet doing the best it can to prevent it from doing so. This lovesickness that tears me apart. I told her that I want it to explode, so that I won't have to be in this painful state anymore. When she asked me what I thought would happen if I'll let it release, I was honest and said "I'll probably die", implying suicide.

So there it is, I'd rather die than keep going on like this. But there is a part of me that thinks it's possible I could survive it when this chaos inside me breaks out and becomes real. This is the sort of survival I'm talking about, all this chaos that is controlling me like a puppet. The chaos that I know will break me beyond repair one day.

Keeping it locked in is a way of surviving, like a sort of self defence when faced with something you cannot fight. I feel a bit like my WoW character fighting that boss yesterday, only healing and trying to stay alive for as long as possible without actually standing a chance against its attacks. Just like him I'm desperately trying to heal myself while life is beating the crap out of me, unable to strike back. And I think I'm running out of mana (the power resource needed for casting healing and other spells), as another WoW reference.

I don't know if I'm even close to fall apart, it could be days, or weeks, even months or worst case scenario it could be fucking years. But I feel it somehow, that I'm running out of power resources. I'm tired in my heart and soul, tired in mind and body. All of my four entities are worn out tired of living like this. I'm always given more than I can handle...

It's not even living, I'm not actually alive, am I? More like a suicidal wreck unable to cope with even the simplest things, just barely holding on. Clutching at the last remaining hopes, but they're slipping away. They are unreasonable, too far away, too perfect. I aim too high and fall too hard.

And all the time it intensifies, grows stronger and more powerful, as if some higher power wants me to suffer. I don't know what to do, I've never known how to handle myself in a crisis. I break apart and do everything I can to escape it, running away for the sake of my life. But suicide has always been my last resort.

Getting the message through

I feel a bit better now. The dizziness has decreased and so has the cold sweating, but I'm shaking instead and feel very weak. If I could take it more easy than usually, I would. Meaning there isn't much more calmer things to do than doing nothing, which is kinda what I always do.

I've realised that I can't really show emotions, and that has lead me to trouble all through my life. Sure I'm good at explaining what I feel, I'm good with words. But I can't show it. Well, anger is the only exception. I believe that is why things haven't exactly been successful in my processes of seeking psychiatric professional help over the years. Especially in emergency psych-wards. They don't take me seriously, they never have. I get this huge vibe that their attitude is something like "it can't be that bad, you don't look upset".

And that's usually when I resort to serious self harm or suicide attempts out of sheer desperation and hopelessness, thinking no one and nothing can help me. Cause no matter how hard I try, I can't get the message through. It shouldn't have to be that way, I shouldn't have to risk my life in order to get help to survive. My terrible communication skills has lead me give up on ever getting the help I needed, which in my past has lead me to take matters in my own hands. Literally.

Language is so insufficient, when spoken only with words. It's hard to believe someone who looks neutral but talks about how overwhelmed by emotions they are. I wouldn't go as far as to say they think I'm lying, but more as if they think I'm exaggerating. Could it have something to do with my asperger syndrome? It doesn't seem unlikely to me.

This might sound stupid, but I've seriously considered "faking" a reaction to the emotions I feel. Like when I am very sad I'll force myself to cry or snivel. Or if I'm very scared I'll force myself to hyperventilate and just apply whatever appropriate body language to the emotion I'm experiencing. A fake smile when I'm happy might not be such a good idea though. Damn, this makes me feel like a robot or something...

Another stupid idea that sometimes gets to me is that I should stop communicating with words at all. Willingly become mute, that is. I thought of that just after I unwillingly became mute that one day in late June. My thought behind that is: that way I would be forced to communicate with my body language much more, and that would in time make me better at doing so. It's a stupid idea because it would probably do more harm than good.

Wouldn't be able to talk on the phone, have a meaningful conversation with someone face to face, speak up when someone says something mean to me, wouldn't be able to explain myself really. Now that would be quite a strife, if you think about it. I would most likely either crawl in under a rock somewhere and stay there, fall into depression - or become violent. Cause what would you do if someone is mean to you and you can't defend yourself with words? I think I'll skip that idea, but it is tempting somehow...

Dark thoughts

Watching Criminal Minds still fucks me up. It awakens dark thoughts and feelings inside me that I don't even want to acknowledge. This episode I just recently watched, it's in the second season, was about a kid with murder fantasies, and he said: "in order to save others from dying I have to kill myself" and it just struck something inside me. That a part of me thought I was just like him, a bomb waiting to explode, until one day those fantasies would become real. Though there is this other part of me saying that as long as I hang on to the feeling of not really wanting to commit those crimes, I can keep it in check.

I've had those dark thoughts and fantasies since I was about twelve, but it has been escalating. Increased. Turned to actual plans. Plans I've been perfecting for years. And maybe there is some solace in that I've been at it, just planning and fantasising without doing anything, for years. I'm still smart enough to not wanna risk my whole life for making a fantasy become real. Besides, reality rarely lives up to an ideal, right?

But there is this uncertainty that keeps gnawing inside me, that maybe one day... And also if I keep losing my mind the way I've been doing these last seven months or so, I can never know for sure what that could lead me to in the future. Cause there actually is a psychotic killer inside of me, wanting to live out its fantasies.

The thing is, I really don't know which side of the law I stand on, when it really comes down to it. I admire murderers at the same time as I think the death penalty is a good thing. Perhaps that would be an "easy escape" if I'd one day end up in that situation. The thought "what the fuck is wrong with me?" pops up in my head. Well, what is right?

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.

Hopes and hopelessness

I had a meeting with my psychiatrist today, and she said she'd call the hospital in Huddinge to try and find out what's going on over there. Cause I haven't heard as much as a whisper since I was there in August and I've been climbing on the walls for quite a while now. The worst is not the waiting, it's not knowing how long I should be waiting for. It's not certain she'll reach the right person over the phone, or if they would tell her anything, or if they even have anything to tell her. Worth a try though.

It's like I'm playing "catch me if you can" with sleep itself. Making the frightening chase into a chaotic, potentially dangerous, self destructive game. A competition of hours, another obsession, a fucking achievement.

Though, it lets me think of something else, focus my mind off my main obsession for a little while. My crush. Cause thinking of him is getting more and more painful each passing day. Knowing that he's so far away both literally and figuratively makes it harder and harder to cope, as I'm slowly realising how impossible my dreams are. I knew this would happen sooner or later, I just wished it could have been later.

This sadness is growing bigger inside me. A little more today than it was yesterday, and it was more yesterday than the day before that. It's a heavy, calm sadness like a soft dark veil swept over my face. Not the brutal, numbing sadness that brings endless amounts of tears and low self esteem. Though I do cry quite a lot, but only when provoked and often while watching a movie or reading something sad. Like twenty times a day... I also isolate more, cause I don't want to face the world outside.

I look at the world with more gloomy eyes, a bitter frown at the colours of the nature around the corner. I smile a fake smile when someone points out a cute animal before my eyes, as dark thoughts ravage my head and I couldn't care less about the creature. I have to bite my tongue to not let out all of my negative thoughts and pessimistic views on my so called future.

Cause I need for people to know that I still keep my hopes up, it's just that I can't express them any longer. For what I hope for and what I believe will happen isn't the same thing.

Accustomed to the dark

I think I'm starting to tackle my caffeine habit, as of drinking tea instead of coffee and taking less of them pills. A lot of tea though. Don't know how many cups a day, but I've been awake for two and a half hours now and had 3 already. Small cups, but still. Cause if I fill up a big cup, I end up forgetting it halfway through and leaving it cold, throwing away what is left. It's also a good way to keep warm. It's not cold in here, but I still feel cold.

I took a day off again and slept for 26 hours, so I missed yesterday. Going for those 100 hours this time instead. The crew woke me up at half past nine and asked me if I wanted to get up. I told them the truth, that I never want to get out of bed and I never want to go to bed. I think that is why I do this, staying awake for days and days in a row, and then sleeping for a whole day or more. I don't want to sleep, just as much as I don't want to be awake.

I feel depressed, but I know that I'm not clinically depressed. If I was I wouldn't sit her and write. I would still be in bed, not eating, not caring about anything. I wouldn't laugh or smile or appreciate a cup of tea. Besides, antidepressants don't work on me, and I only take Mirtazapin for its sedative effects. I've tried Sertralin (Zoloft), Fluoxetin, Venlafaxin, Efexor and Cymbalta. That is basically everything except for Anafranil and those really old ones.

But yeah, I do feel depressed. In the sense that I don't want to wake up or go to bed, that I shut myself out from the world, have lack of inspiration for doing anything creative. I miss my creativity above all else. I can put up with this lack of a circadian rhythm (there really isn't a rhythm, only a chaotic and completely out of control sleeping pattern), but not being able to draw, sew or write anything else than diary and blog entries really bugs me.

I feel lifeless. Just withering away. Am I giving up on life? Just letting misery swallow me whole. Just eating to stop my stomach from growling, sleeping cause I finally give up on trying to stay awake, getting out of bed cause I finally give up on trying to sleep, sitting by my computer all days and nights long because I have no will to do anything real. Escaping life by doing nothing, I'm neither dead or alive. Just surviving, breathing, complaining, dreaming. I've lost my will to live, but I have no will to die.

But I still cling to life, cause deep down I do want to live. I just don't know how. Have no energy to even give it a try. Afraid of failure, of being hurt and becoming even more miserable on the way. I'm comfortable in this mess, grown accustomed to the darkness, yet I'm not satisfied with it. I want so much more, but tired of fighting. Just waiting for my motivation to arise again. Just waiting.

Falling for you is like falling to pieces

I feel like shit, for various private reasons. I would like to write about it, the specific reason, but I can't take the risk. So I write about how shitty I feel instead. But isn't that just the typical me? Constantly ventilating, because I don't really want anyone's opinions, just want people to know. But isn't that hypocritical in a way? I dunno. Sometimes I think it doesn't matter if I write it here or in my paper diary.

I've become more careful with what I choose to make public, maybe you've noticed. That there are more secrets now. Mostly cause I don't want anyone to find out who it is that I'm in love with. It sort of goes against my morals to tell everyone except for the person it actually concerns. And I can't tell him, cause that would spoil everything. Or it could, I can't know for sure of course.

I shouldn't give up, should keep on waiting, it's not too late yet, it's not... but it feels that way. My god, has it already been this long? Six months ago I was nervous about congratulating him on his birthday, and now... Well, time passes, but I didn't think I'd still be sitting here waiting, after all this time. Still clinging to dying hopes, patching up cracking dreams, repeating the same wishes, stepping on the same "K-wells" but it's fading away. I can feel it fading away. He's getting further out of reach, even more unavailable, and my days of hopelessness are becoming more and more frequent.

I cry almost every day. Cry and cut and cry. Write, but I have no words to write. It's just this. Meaningless scribbles that's been typed over and over and it never means anything. I've lost the spark in my words, lost the belief that they actually mean something. What the hell kind of writer am I then? If I don't even believe in my own words?

Everything seem to revolve around him now. Depending on what he writes or says or does is so strongly affecting my mood, my thoughts, my deeds, my life. It's like I can't exist without him. Yet he's not even mine. Not even breathing the same air, speaking to me, hearing me, seeing me. He's not actually here. It feels like I'm depending on a ghost, I'm on life support and his ghost is keeping me alive.

I seriously don't know what would happen the day I lose the grip of my dreams, hopes and wishes about him. I think I would disintegrate. That I will once again relive all that agony, insufferable inner pain of being heartbroken. I think it will happen soon. Sooner than I can afford. Way too soon. Within months, perhaps only weeks. It's already been six months, I realise. For six months I've been pining for him. Maybe longer, but my diaries don't contain any useful information.

I tried to deny my feelings for him for some time, and it wasn't until late July that I let myself fall for him. But I was already in love, already in June, but perhaps even earlier. Yup, found a picture of him on my computer saved there the 31st of May. So then it's seven months. For seven months I've been pining for him.

For all this time... I'm surprised I didn't reach this state sooner. Total devotion. It stings inside me, for I hate falling in love. I truly, most utterly hate being in love.

Why can't I feel love like everyone else does? Fall for someone who falls for you, not lose yourself completely over an acquaintance you hardly even know, not wanting to kill yourself because you don't stand a chance with the person you're so painfully in love with, for someone who barely even knows your name.

I don't want to feel love like this. It's not right, it's wrong in so many places I don't know where to begin. If this pushes me over the edge, and I start planning my own death again, maybe I'll tell him someday. Tell him that I love him so damn much, no words can describe it.

In my mind I have told him a million times, in different words every time. But it's not gonna be the same in reality. No matter how many ways I can think of saying it, reality always turns out differently. Someone once told me that "if you can imagine something, it is more likely to actually happen". I hope that is true, cause I've already imagined up a whole relationship with him.

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...