This is a list of things that bother me so much that I feel I am always thinking about them but trying not to.
1. I took up smoking for two reasons really. One, it helped me deal with my anxiety after crashing my car and was really the only thing that worked. Two, I used it as a replacement for cutting myself. Although it works well for both of these things, it makes it near impossible for me to quit.
2. I cannot explain these reasons generally to people when they ask me why I smoke. I also don’t appreciate when they tell me that it’s going to kill me because I know. I watched lung cancer kill my dad, I’m fully aware of the dangers of smoking, thanks.
3. I realize the above makes me the worst fucking person ever, don’t worry.
4. Even though I have not cut myself in months probably, I’m finding myself digging my fingernails into myself when I’m anxious to the point of leaving scars. This is how I started hurting myself in the first place. I’m trying to ignore it.
5. One of my least favorite memories was late one Christmas morning, I believe it was sophomore year of high school. It would be the second to last Christmas I would have with my dad. I had a ton of crescent shaped scars all over my arm from digging my nails into my skin and my dad questioned it and I didn’t respond. Instead, I hid in my room and cried for a few hours and came out later with a hoodie on, hoping the subject wouldn’t be brought up again. It wasn’t.
6. The only actual reason I can think of now for not hurting myself is simply because my boyfriend will see and I don’t want to listen to a speech about him being disappointed in me.
7. As of late, I feel as if I am either constantly on the verge of a panic attack or having one. I want to be able to breathe normally.
8. Either I am crying uncontrollably or I am finding myself completely unable to cry, no matter how strongly I want to and no matter how hard I try to force it.
9. I am a mess and I don’t know what to do anymore.
He’s read The Great Gatsby. At least three times. It’s one of his favorite books.
So, um, I just wanted to let everyone know that everything in my life has been kind of crazy lately (not in a bad way!) and that’s why I have not been on as much as usual. However, hopefully things will become less crazy soon and will return to normal.
so I went and saw my new therapist on tuesday morning and I was super nervous about it but wow she is super nice and understanding and doesn’t just dismiss things that are important to me as unimportant like other therapists have in the past and basically I’m really happy with her.
I have made a lot of friends in the past five years but have been unable to stay friends with any of them.
And now I find myself incredibly, unbearably lonely and I have no idea how or where to make new friends.
So, I finally went and saw a new psychiatrist yesterday…
but am still having panic attacks about meeting friends tonight and will probably not go.
I’ve always felt I should be as complaisant as possible, that I should try my best not to be bothersome, and I should simply accept whatever thought I am given.
But today I decided to speak up for once, and say how I actually felt.
And now the person who I spoke to is not speaking to me except to let me know they are mad at me and think I am “insensitive”. Oh.
My family, my friends, my professors. They all don’t understand why I have no motivation. They say I’m bright, I tell them I used to be. They ask me ‘don’t you want to do well, don’t you want to succeed?’. Of course I do. I want to so badly. It’s important to me, no matter what it seems. But deep down part of me disregards it. It’s a paper, it doesn’t matter. It’s one assignment, who cares. You’re not doing anything in that class anyway, don’t worry about it. It just all seems so trivial to me, and no matter how much I try to force myself to care, I can’t. You know what’s really important to me? What really matters? That I haven’t seen my dad in almost four years now. That I have to remind myself what his voice sounds like. That on his birthday and on the anniversary of his death, I have to pretend like it’s a normal day. That there’s no grave for me to visit, to leave flowers, to talk and tell him how much I love him. That I was in the same house when he passed away, but I wasn’t by his side. I didn’t know. But it was my fault. But how could I have known? Still my fault.
That’s what matters to me.
It’s the fake laughter.
It’s always being in physical pain for no reason.
It’s being tired. All the time.
It’s lying awake for hours with your mind racing.
It’s the phrase “I just don’t care.”
It’s boredom but you don’t want to do anything.
It’s feeling trapped.
It’s not knowing what you’re feeling but knowing that it hurts.
It’s the moment when you realize nothing matters anymore.
It’s going through life like a robot, an observer, not a participant.
It’s being numb.
It’s the first time you pray to die.
It’s when you wake up each morning.
It’s when you plan your own death.
It’s the guilt you feel because you “have no right” to be depressed.
It’s wanting other people to notice and care but not caring enough yourself to ask for help.
It’s looking into the future and seeing nothing.