Storm

19 || FtM || No dni but will block if I wanna || Dear diary...

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[snowstorm201]

Big sigh.

Deep breaths.

I'll be okay. I need to be okay.

"Tout va bien aller."

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Cher journal,

je me fais chier. Sérieusement. Tu sais, je vais à une fête, je discute avec des gens, je sors dehors, je prends du soleil, j'ai du plaisir, je fais rire le "monde", je m'occupe des autres... Ce sont des choses qui m'aident à m'accomplir en tant que personne et qui, logiquement, devraient me faire sentir mieux. Pourtant, je passe ma journée avec ce qui se fait ressentir comme un trou dans l'âme, puis une envie de me jeter en bas d'un pont. Mais pourquoi? Rien de particulièrement déplaisant s'est produit aujourd'hui. Mis à part mes pensées intrusives... je me trouve si égoïste, innocent, et privilégié pour pouvoir me permettre de me sentir ainsi malgré tout ce qui m'est offert dans la vie. En tout cas. Je ne peux quasiment rien y faire. Pas en criant "hourrah", du moins.

Je me demande bien pourquoi ces choses ne m'apportent plus autant de satisfaction qu'auparavant.

[snowstorm201]

Cher journal,

on se retrouve. Ce soir en est un particulièrement difficile pour moi. Je ne saurai te dire pourquoi exactement, moi qui suis pourtant habituellement savant sur de telles choses. J'ose croire bien me connaitre...? En tout cas, ce n'est pas d'importance.

C'est temps si, je me retrouve accablé de pensées intrusives tenaces. De plus, elles sont si perturbantes. Elles me disent de sauter devant un train ou une auto en mouvement, de me couper jusqu'à ce que ma peau soit couverte de plaies, d'en finir avec mes jours, de mentir à tout ceux qui me sont chers jusqu'à m'en noyer, faire semblant de devenir fou pour qu'on me gorge de sédatifs, etc. Je trouve énervant que ces pensées ayant pour thème le suicide ou l'auto destruction soient omniprésentes maintenant que je vais moins bien. Surtout que, tranquillement, ces pensées semblent s'éffriter de l'étiquette "intrusives." Elle me paraissent plus... plausibles? Plus considérables. Moins perturbantes. Je n'agirai jamais sur ces pensées, que nous nous entendons bien là dessus. Je suis conscient qu'elles sont folles et dépourvues de sens ainsi que conséquences positifs. Tout de même, je me sens misérablement envahi. J'ai l'impression que les pores de ma peau vont un jour séder et s'élargir pour laisser couler les larmes dont j'ai accumulé avec le temps et mes peines. C'est une drôle d'idée, mais elle offre un bon support visuel à mes ressentiments. J'ai l'impression que je vais sauter en dehors de mon corps à tout moment.

Et puis, bon, demain est un autre jour. J'ai l'impression que ça fait des années que je me dis cela... mais il faut y croire. Donc, à demain, en espérant que ça aille mieux.

[snowstorm201]

Dear diary,

I feel weird. There's so much I care about when I care so little about myself. I want to ruin myself 'til there's not much of me left, but I try to remain sane for the ones looking out for me. It all comes down about what side of me will win, and I can't tell you for sure who will. I'm tired to say the least. I spent so long trying to convince myself not to run away today. I had it all planned out. All. Everything. It was a perfect plan, almost flawless, but my stupid logical side told me not to act rashly, and it won. I do not know how I feel about that. I will reschedule my plan for next week, I will see if it has as much appeal as it does currently. If it doesn't, then I'll know it was a one thime thing, a "spur of the moment," or whatver they say...

I hadn't cried out of sadness in a long time.

[snowstorm201]

Hurts kinda good.

[snowstorm201]

Dear diary,

today was an odd day. It may not have been much different than my usual days, but... I guess in the end, it turned out to be a mess. I do not feel much regret, but nonetheless, I do not feel good either. What will lead out of this, I wonder?

[snowstorm201]

I'm so fucking tired. Good god.

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Dear diary,

life got a lil' too serious, and a lil' too dreadful, so I got a heartache and vomited.

Remind me why mental shit can't stay in its damn lane?

[snowstorm201]

Dear diary,

my anxiety and my dissociation has offically reached my body. I've been feeling faint, weak, and nauseated all day. I've been also having a lot of migraines.

It's my birthday in 20 minutes. What now?

[snowstorm201]

Dear diary,

nothing's real and I can't prove it. How tf do I get outta here.

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Dear diary,

I haven't been feeling too great. I've been having much more frequent nightmares. They're more detailed, too... I keep thinking that the world is a simulation, or that everyone around me is onto something, or knows of something that I, and only I, don't. I want to cry. I want to scream. I wanna turn absolutely batshit crazy, and rot in my bed until the world has been wiped out of my existence, but I know I mustn't, and that drives me even crazier - to be aware, aware of the madness of my thoughts and desires.

Maybe letting everyone know my thoughts, leading them to treat and see me as a madman, would make me feel more sane than to be treated like the average person.

Fuck I'm exhausted. Can I not cry until I drown in my tears?

[snowstorm201]

Dear diary,

I've started new meds. I hope they help. I'm tired.

[snowstorm201]

How do I feel. How should I feel? Who are you, anyway? Why are you looking at me. Don't look at me. I don't want to be looked at. Perceived, what a stupid word. Am I real? Do I exist once you stop looking at me? Exxisttvva# ..... .xxxxxxxxsggggggvv404.. Exist? Do I exist.

[snowstorm201]

Dear diary,

I'm a little tired. Perhaps I should close my eyes and never open them again, until my very flesh merges with my sheets.

[snowstorm201]

Dear diary,

I've been thinking about my hospital days a lot lately. Especially that one night.

Start memory

[A unit. A small unit with only four rooms in total. The rooms build with four white walls, and with nothing in them but poor-looking beds and writings over the old paint, written by past patients, 98% of them being "help" in all caps. One of the walls: a door sided with huge "windows." From said windows, you can see a station behind a glass, situated accross the narrow hall from which the doctor and the nurses are watching 24/7. Next to my room: a girl, deep in psychosis. She is screaming, thrashing, banging, cursing, and singing, singing "La Vie en rose," to be precise. Such a delicate song, sung in a such violent setting. She is screaming until her voice gives out, singing until the guards come hold her down, banging her head until she's given sedatives - because the poor girl cannot realize she is splitting her head open, splashing her blood all over the place, and if she can, she doesn't care. Then, me, in my room, half alive. I'm violently sobbing. I'm shaking like a leaf. I'm curled up on the floor, in the corner of the room. I'm begging for someone, something, whispering "please," over, and over, but to no avail. No one comes, not the doctors, not the nurses. They just watch. Watch me, and the girl, like we're two circus freaks. So the hours stretch by, feeling like months. Someone kill me. Hours of fear, hours of flashbacks, hours of not knowing whether I am in the present, past, or future, my body feeling both infinite and singular at once. My brain is feeling like it's being physical split apart in a thousand pieces. And when my body finally shuts off completely, blessing me with unconsciousness, it is awoken again by another bang, or another scream. What time is it now? I begin screaming too, now. It is out of raw, unfiltered fear. Why am I screaming? When did I start screaming? The type, I'm guessing, one feels when they are fearing for their life. I am fearing for my life. I'm gonna die here, am I not? I pass out... at some point.]

End memory.

This doesn't cover half of it. No words can ever come to describe it to it's full extent.

Anyway, all is over now. But I still heavily fear banging noises, or screaming. I also hate blood. Not all due to that event... but it sure plays a part. I want to move on, but it is hard. I also never told anyone that this memory haunts me. It feels stupid.

[snowstorm201]

Dear diary,

I've realized that, while my anxiety makes school difficult, what's really making it hard for my to show up has been the lack of a friend by my side. It had always been my motivation - a friend, my friends. They would make me forget about why I was anxious to show up in the first place... but my current school's conditions make it difficult to make friends, and my ocd gives me a hard time when I open my mouth, even when I say little.