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@tinylittlebutterfly
I started lying to my own psychologist. I pretended I didn't write my suicide letter, recorded videos saying what was going on, and said goodbye to people; I swore it was expontaneos just so I wouldn't be locked in mental hospital again.. honestly, I don't regret trying, I regret failing.. I wish everything was over. Instead, once again, I failed. Once again, I'm trapped in my own mind. Once again, I'm not living.
Now I want to start starving again.
Hi there
Hello, sorry for the delay in responding, life has been crazy. How are you? ^^
I want to expose myself, I want to starve and let people judge my body. I love feeling weak, but I hate feeling tired all the time. I want to starve but still be alive; not because I want to stay breathing but because not eating is the closest I can get from being dead while not traumatizing who remembers am still here.
The art is me.
They played the music while I played with my body.. they lead with notes, and I follow step by step. The song takes it high point while I, at the point of my feet, stretched my arms to create the perfect visual. I recreated myself, reinvented my feelings, and reformulated my thoughts; I danced till the board of the stage aiming for the crowd, but there was never no crowd to be found. We are alone people, to many to feel special, too far to be at company. I keep moving, one, two, three; many twirls in just one spot. I'm accompanying what I'm hearing while it moves around on it own feelings. I know once I stop, the song continues, and I'll be left behind, so I run, jump, throw myself in the ground. I do it all at once just so I'm not in a lack of words. It's useless, I'm already far. Where am I? Exactly where I thought I would be. I keep dancing, not because I wanted it, because I accept it. I break my bones, twist my body, and let the song be the one to dance in me. But I will never be the music, I just accepted how it is. Way too mooved to give up, too hurt to be the lead. I'm exactly where I thought I would be.. but in my dreams, I'm jumping off the bridge into the cold streets.
Memories..
a bottle of magic pills.. some make you happy, others replicate those shivers all over our spine. I thought I was better off not taking them, no pills, no feel. That would be all... the faces were all the same, the bodies, their voices.. all a spectrum of lost pieces from my ming flushed down in the toilet. It was my choice, taking or not, remembering or not, choosing who to blame or who to praze. It all went down when my bottle was empty, there's no refil for bottles of memories, they hurt, cause panic, burn your skin, create those unlimited tears in your eyes... but once they are gone, it is over.. when they are gone, there is no such thing as bad or good. There are just lost thoughts floating on the air waiting to be received, afraid to be forgotten. Far away from the concept of true.
It's so funny.. people get that depression leads to suicidal behavior but don't understand that depressed people lack in self care! K1ll1ng yourself? Oh, okay! Not taking a bath? Not brushing your hair or your teeth? not keeping your room spotless? not eating? "Oh too mutch, I can't stand it." Bitch I'm willing to unalive myself you really think I give a damn about my well-being?
The worst part of relapse is that it will never be worse than before, so now you are never suffering enough to enable yourself to admit you are broken again, but also never good enough to be able to live normally.
I honestly am so used to being empty and sad in a way that it hurts for no reason that I just can't imagine someone living a life without mental issues.
Isn't it kinda weird that my ultimate flex is that my mother's happiest memory with me was us going to the hospital because I tried to k1ll myself?
She was really just vibing and happy, telling about it with a smile, but when it gets to the part where I'm so stupid that I fucking failed it she is not happy anymore.