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@theendwego
“Flowers teach us that nothing is permanent: not their beauty, not even the fact that they will inevitably wilt, because they will still give new seeds. Remember this when you feel joy, pain, or sadness. Everything passes, grows old, dies, and is reborn.”
— Paulo Coelho, The Spy
Who was I?
Fuck who even am I?
Sometimes I get so lost.
Sometimes I get so consumed with sadness and anger and disappointment in myself.
Sometimes I can’t stop thinking about being stuck.
Stuck here. Unhappy. Ugly. Unsatisfied. Alone.
Ya know, there is something I have to tell you. A secret I’ve been keeping.
It didn’t get better. It isn’t better. It won’t be better.
I thought running would be the answer. I thought finally doing what I wanted would make it better. I thought if I was successful I could ignore it. I thought if I got out it would finally be gone.
Funny thing is, it can’t be ignored. And honestly, it gets worse the more you even try to ignore it.
I though I got stronger. I thought I beat it. Turns out I just found another way to push it so deep inside me that it only came up when I let my guard down.
Jokes on me because I’ve been hiding behind these love affairs. But when those end, how do you hide?
It didn’t get better. In fact, it got worse. The self hatred. The depression. The suicidal thoughts. The sadness.
It’s been ten years. I’m sad to say it didn’t get better and I don’t think it ever will.
I wanted to be your success story.
I wanted to be your inspiration.
I know this is bad timing but I cant seem to control the constant want to slice open my skin
I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.
Realizing that I require too much work that no one is willing to put in.
I shouldn’t even try to add people to my life because in the end I just feel guilty for putting them through this.
“You know, I used to regret it. I used to regret how I ran to anything sharp to cut my disgusting white porcelain skin open. I would go and go until the red lines blurred into one and the anxiety of leaving mess overcame me. I use to regret the scars on my body that are barely there anymore. Then there was a switch. I started to get worse after a year of not cutting. I hate that I don’t have more scars. I hate every inch of me even more than before. Sometimes, I have these moments where I would do anything to tear out of my skin. I want scars. I want pain. A pain worse than the ache within my chest. And it’s so goddamn hard to remember the reason why I have to stop being self destructive.”
— Anything to get out. Get out. Get out.
I care about you, I’ll always care. You pretend not to because it’s easy but I can’t pretend. It’s tearing my heart apart.
Leohearts (via leohearts)
You know, I used to regret it. I used to regret how I ran to anything sharp to cut my disgusting white porcelain skin open. I would go and go until the red lines blurred into one and the anxiety of leaving mess overcame me. I use to regret the scars on my body that are barely there anymore. Then there was a switch. I started to get worse after a year of not cutting. I hate that I don’t have more scars. I hate every inch of me even more than before. Sometimes, I have these moments where I would do anything to tear out of my skin. I want scars. I want pain. A pain worse than the ache within my chest. And it’s so goddamn hard to remember the reason why I have to stop being self destructive.
Anything to get out. Get out. Get out. (via prttywrdscnsootheasadmnd)
And they don’t understand how hard it is sometimes. They don’t understand that sometimes in anatomy when I’m staring at a scalpel, I have to stop for a minute. Or else I will…… they stare and yell at me. They don’t fucking understand how hard it is to not get triggered. They don’t understand how hard it is to fight the urges. They don’t fucking understand what I would do to just have peace. Peace in my head. Peace in my body. Peace in my sleep. Just peace. So please. Don’t tell me I can get through this. Just hold my fucking hand while I’m shaking to hold on to my sanity.
To fight and fight and fight. And keep on fighting. (via prttywrdscnsootheasadmnd)
Maybe it’s harder when you’re fighting it alone because everyone else is too ashamed to speak of it. Maybe it’s harder when you lie to the only person who has ever helped you, your therapist, about the urges that still exist just as strongly as before. Maybe it’s harder when the person you love tells you they cheated and you are over two thousand miles away and can’t do a single thing about it. Maybe it’s harder when you put up such a great mask throughout the day but have horrible breakdowns at 3 am. Maybe it’s harder on everyone else and I’m just being a selfish bitch who can’t handle my petty problems.
Maybe, just maybe, you should tell me to shut the fuck up. (via prttywrdscnsootheasadmnd)
I’m hurting and god it’s terrible.
Should’ve been me dead on the side of the road, not you. (via prttywrdscnsootheasadmnd)
I’m never enough.
And, you know, that’s really hard. (via prttywrdscnsootheasadmnd)
Just sad. So sad.
Sad sad sad so sad (via prttywrdscnsootheasadmnd)
I wish you were here.
I wish you were here so badly that the ache in my chest feels as if it’s everywhere. (via prttywrdscnsootheasadmnd)
