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Description

Warning - contains the following triggers: self harm, depression, suicidal ideation, anxiety, suicide. Read at your own discretion. Seek professional help if you have suicidal tendencies or any other mental illness. Stay safe

***

Entry 01.

I’ve been so lonely for more than half my life that at some point, I’ve started having days long conversations that will never happen, with people I will never meet, about scenarios that are as implausible as me suddenly developing the ability to find answers to the questions I’ve been asking myself. And when one scenario ends, another one begins and so it ends and it begins again in an endless loop. I’ve been in my own head for so long that going out and interacting with real people in real settings about real life aspects of my life and theirs seems like the weird one out for me.
I wanted to get back into writing because I found creating a world and being in control over my characters partially makes up for the lack of control in my own life. I’ve made the made up me happy in some of the stories. In others I had no mercy left to give so I just offed myself. Each one feels good in a different way. But my writing’s just childish and awful. I mean, no one apart from me is ever going to see it because I don’t plan on posting it anywhere, but it just frustrates me because I want it to be better. When I was sixteen I could waive it off as me being just sixteen, but now that I’m much older it’s infuriating to realize I’m still at the same level and my expression through creation is unsatisfyingly bland and whiny. But if it helps even for a while, then I’d better start with it now, although I am highly skeptical it will make a noticeable difference after so much has changed.

---

   “Harriet2006,

I am deeply saddened to know such a talented and strong person like you has had so much trouble in life so far. I'd like to help, but I don't know how except maybe write to you.
As someone who's had two major depression episodes and is probably on the verge of the third one, all I can say is to just keep going, no matter how crap your life is now. Or tomorrow. Grind your teeth and keep going, one step at a time, one problem at a time. Cause these days will pass and you know that. Snowstorms don't last forever. You've already gone through the worst part.

Your parents act like this because they are worried and they love you, but at the same time they don't understand your struggle. Mental illnesses are hard to grasp for someone who hasn't been there at least once and experienced them on their own. To feel there's no point in living, or not knowing how to let go of the pain that's been building inside you for so long except maybe drinking yourself to oblivion or cutting yourself so you can focus on the physical pain rather than the emotional one. I get that.

However, others don't. Don't judge them or hold grudges against them for judging you; you are better than this and you don't need that, it isn't healthy. Don't add unnecessary weight on your heart and mind. We all have our demons and we can't possibly understand all that are out there, sometimes not even our own. Hang on in there, the fact that you're writing instead of cutting is a major progress. Maybe not all can see this, but it is.

If this is what helps you, do it. Write about whatever you want, when you want, how much you want. You need to remind yourself that you are in control of your own life, even if there are times when it doesn't seem like that at all. On those days remember that you are not alone. There are people who will try to guide you through, but only you can actually do it, so don't ever be afraid to ask for help, even from the people who might not understand you. I firmly believe that there is good in all of us and even if some don't get what you're going through, it doesn't mean they aren't at least willing to try and help. Just don't be too scared to ask for help anymore.

Lastly, keep the story going, it's so realistic, vivid and beautifully written that it always makes me want more. I just discovered you and I rarely take my time to comment, but I feel like you really needed this right now. You have real talent for this and it's therapeutic for you and others too. Remember, one step at a time, one problem at a time.

Hope you're doing better now,
Wendy”

--- I should revisit this Wendy name, not sure about it yet ---

  I hit “send” and hope I didn’t make any mistakes. I’ve already spent almost an hour writing this and my eyes start to feel dry. I hope at least she’ll get to read this, there’s no sign she’s been online for almost two weeks.

I lean back on my couch and close my eyes. I cannot help but smile a bit, thinking I’m such a hypocrite, telling Harriet I understand her and the fact that she used to cut herself. I wasn’t really there myself. I mean, sure, I tried to do it a long time ago but it hurt like a bitch, so I stopped doing it. It didn’t even leave a scar. I wonder if my pain wasn’t strong enough. If maybe I wasn’t as bad as I thought I was, like Harriet was. I vaguely wonder what she’s been through. I let out a big sigh. Of course I was that bad. Time would prove me so again and again and would keep reminding me of it. Who wouldn’t be like that after all I’ve been through? A stronger person, I guess would be the correct answer to this question.

I look at the clock, it’s 01:46. I guess it’s time I go to sleep, it’s already way too late for me. Ever since I started work, I adopted a new sleeping schedule, which, oddly enough, doesn’t really seem to work that well for me since most of the time I don’t feel well rested even after seven or eight hours of sleep. I guess you can’t really get into a new sleeping schedule after so many years in which I would never got to bed earlier than 2am.

My nightmares don’t help either. At least now I have pills to take on restless nights, they make me not dream anymore. I feel good after I wake up because I have an uninterrupted sleep but I can’t, or at least I don’t want to take them each and every night. Maybe it’s because I like to struggle sometimes because I can’t really imagine a life without struggles, or maybe it’s because I don’t want to get to tolerate them, like I did only a few years back and I had to take way more pills than the doctor recommended me so they would have any effect. Sometimes I wonder how I didn’t overdose by accident. I don’t know, sometimes I don’t know which of these two to pick.

I went to a psychiatrist a few weeks back to talk about the recent events. I don’t want to be depressed again. I don’t want to be there again. It sucks; it’s a dark, cold and lonely place to be. And it sucks the life out of you. We talked a bit and she seemed like a nice person, she was glad I came immediately after I saw the first red flags. She didn’t give me antidepressants and I didn’t want any, really, all I wanted was my sleeping pills, which she agreed were necessary. I have to see her again in a few weeks to let her know how things are going. But honestly, I don’t know what to say to her. I have good days and bad days. Sometimes when I’m in the shower and I shave I have flashes of me sinking the razor into my skin and watch me bleed into the tub. I wonder if this time I could and then I close my eyes, inhale deeply and go back to reality. Flashes like these aren’t welcome, nor do I want to let them sink into my head more than that half a second when they slip past my guard. I guess I should tell her about them, I had them last time, and the time before that too.

--- if they’d only happen in the shower it’d be neat ---

I look at the clock again. It’s 02:34 and I don’t feel like I’m going to fall asleep anytime soon. Fuck. Should I take one? I glance at the bottle of pills sitting by my bedside, only one reach away, what if…

--- haven’t fallen asleep before 4am in months. 2:30, that’s cute, Wendy ---

  I see myself reaching for the bottle and I open it through the faint light from the outside street lamps. I open my palm and pour as many as I can hold, then I put the cap back on and open the bottle of water. One big gulp, that’s all it takes. I see myself swallowing all of them. Then I go and pull the key out of the door so my parents won’t have to break it when they find me. It’s a good thing they have a key to my place. I go back to bed and wrap myself in the fuzzy yellow blanket I bought a few months back. I don’t think of anything, I don’t feel anything. I watch and think of this like it’s a show about another person that’s just about to end.

No. No. Snap out of it. I blink fast and stare into the ceiling. It’s things like these that keep me awake.
I look directly at the bottle, it’s just sitting there and of all the things to end it, this seems the most painless and easy one. I sigh.
Perhaps another time.

--- yeah, it really does seem the easier way out ---

I don’t know when I fell asleep last night. It doesn’t feel like I slept at all, really, but I don’t remember being awake all night, so I must’ve slept. Today is Sunday. I cringe at the thought of going to work tomorrow. Weekends are precious now, yet somehow I still manage to waste them and not relax at all. I feel constantly tired and it’s days when I feel more tired than usual when I start feeling “bad”.

I remember one day, not long after my latest personal failure, when I had three panic attacks, one at work, one while going home and one at home. That particular day sucked and it’s what pushed me to see the psychiatrist more than my insomnia. I don’t like to think back to how I was feeling that day. All the despair, chocking, hyperventilating and uncontrollable urge to cry, they just…it’s too much at once.

I didn’t have any full blown panic attack since, but I guess this is because every time I start a day feeling bad, I pop a quarter pill right away. And if I’m still headed for a panic attack, I take another quarter, and later that day, I take the other half one hour before I go to bed. Lately I haven’t had “quarter days”, but you know, never say never. I don’t know how I’ll be tomorrow, so I try not to label the days anymore. They’re just days. I wake up, go to work, come back to my empty apartment, maybe eat something and then go and try to sleep.

It’s not like I don’t feel the despair creeping on me from time to time, or like I don’t get the urge to cry myself to sleep anymore. But crying helps. I don’t hold back when I’m alone. I cry, I scream, I punch, myself or something else. Sometimes I feel like I need this physical pain to take my mind off of whatever I’m thinking about. I get the feeling I’d make a really convincing scene if I were an actress, but I’m not, so I get to cry alone, for real, with no one knowing and applauding me for my flawless performance. But lately it’s been getting harder and harder to cry.

---

Aaah the cringe, the cringe is killing me, get your shit together, Wendy, and stop being a drama queen. What could you possibly have been through to justify whining this way? Since I’m pissing myself off, I guess it’s enough writing for today. One thing I’ll have to check is how I feel about “Wendy”, maybe tomorrow it won’t seem like a weird pick of a name.
Bye for now, journal.

Description

Warning - contains the following triggers: self harm, depression, suicidal ideation, anxiety, suicide. Read at your own discretion. Seek professional help if you have suicidal tendencies or any other mental illness. Stay safe

***

Entry 01.

I’ve been so lonely for more than half my life that at some point, I’ve started having days long conversations that will never happen, with people I will never meet, about scenarios that are as implausible as me suddenly developing the ability to find answers to the questions I’ve been asking myself. And when one scenario ends, another one begins and so it ends and it begins again in an endless loop. I’ve been in my own head for so long that going out and interacting with real people in real settings about real life aspects of my life and theirs seems like the weird one out for me.
I wanted to get back into writing because I found creating a world and being in control over my characters partially makes up for the lack of control in my own life. I’ve made the made up me happy in some of the stories. In others I had no mercy left to give so I just offed myself. Each one feels good in a different way. But my writing’s just childish and awful. I mean, no one apart from me is ever going to see it because I don’t plan on posting it anywhere, but it just frustrates me because I want it to be better. When I was sixteen I could waive it off as me being just sixteen, but now that I’m much older it’s infuriating to realize I’m still at the same level and my expression through creation is unsatisfyingly bland and whiny. But if it helps even for a while, then I’d better start with it now, although I am highly skeptical it will make a noticeable difference after so much has changed.

---

   “Harriet2006,

I am deeply saddened to know such a talented and strong person like you has had so much trouble in life so far. I'd like to help, but I don't know how except maybe write to you.
As someone who's had two major depression episodes and is probably on the verge of the third one, all I can say is to just keep going, no matter how crap your life is now. Or tomorrow. Grind your teeth and keep going, one step at a time, one problem at a time. Cause these days will pass and you know that. Snowstorms don't last forever. You've already gone through the worst part.

Your parents act like this because they are worried and they love you, but at the same time they don't understand your struggle. Mental illnesses are hard to grasp for someone who hasn't been there at least once and experienced them on their own. To feel there's no point in living, or not knowing how to let go of the pain that's been building inside you for so long except maybe drinking yourself to oblivion or cutting yourself so you can focus on the physical pain rather than the emotional one. I get that.

However, others don't. Don't judge them or hold grudges against them for judging you; you are better than this and you don't need that, it isn't healthy. Don't add unnecessary weight on your heart and mind. We all have our demons and we can't possibly understand all that are out there, sometimes not even our own. Hang on in there, the fact that you're writing instead of cutting is a major progress. Maybe not all can see this, but it is.

If this is what helps you, do it. Write about whatever you want, when you want, how much you want. You need to remind yourself that you are in control of your own life, even if there are times when it doesn't seem like that at all. On those days remember that you are not alone. There are people who will try to guide you through, but only you can actually do it, so don't ever be afraid to ask for help, even from the people who might not understand you. I firmly believe that there is good in all of us and even if some don't get what you're going through, it doesn't mean they aren't at least willing to try and help. Just don't be too scared to ask for help anymore.

Lastly, keep the story going, it's so realistic, vivid and beautifully written that it always makes me want more. I just discovered you and I rarely take my time to comment, but I feel like you really needed this right now. You have real talent for this and it's therapeutic for you and others too. Remember, one step at a time, one problem at a time.

Hope you're doing better now,
Wendy”

--- I should revisit this Wendy name, not sure about it yet ---

  I hit “send” and hope I didn’t make any mistakes. I’ve already spent almost an hour writing this and my eyes start to feel dry. I hope at least she’ll get to read this, there’s no sign she’s been online for almost two weeks.

I lean back on my couch and close my eyes. I cannot help but smile a bit, thinking I’m such a hypocrite, telling Harriet I understand her and the fact that she used to cut herself. I wasn’t really there myself. I mean, sure, I tried to do it a long time ago but it hurt like a bitch, so I stopped doing it. It didn’t even leave a scar. I wonder if my pain wasn’t strong enough. If maybe I wasn’t as bad as I thought I was, like Harriet was. I vaguely wonder what she’s been through. I let out a big sigh. Of course I was that bad. Time would prove me so again and again and would keep reminding me of it. Who wouldn’t be like that after all I’ve been through? A stronger person, I guess would be the correct answer to this question.

I look at the clock, it’s 01:46. I guess it’s time I go to sleep, it’s already way too late for me. Ever since I started work, I adopted a new sleeping schedule, which, oddly enough, doesn’t really seem to work that well for me since most of the time I don’t feel well rested even after seven or eight hours of sleep. I guess you can’t really get into a new sleeping schedule after so many years in which I would never got to bed earlier than 2am.

My nightmares don’t help either. At least now I have pills to take on restless nights, they make me not dream anymore. I feel good after I wake up because I have an uninterrupted sleep but I can’t, or at least I don’t want to take them each and every night. Maybe it’s because I like to struggle sometimes because I can’t really imagine a life without struggles, or maybe it’s because I don’t want to get to tolerate them, like I did only a few years back and I had to take way more pills than the doctor recommended me so they would have any effect. Sometimes I wonder how I didn’t overdose by accident. I don’t know, sometimes I don’t know which of these two to pick.

I went to a psychiatrist a few weeks back to talk about the recent events. I don’t want to be depressed again. I don’t want to be there again. It sucks; it’s a dark, cold and lonely place to be. And it sucks the life out of you. We talked a bit and she seemed like a nice person, she was glad I came immediately after I saw the first red flags. She didn’t give me antidepressants and I didn’t want any, really, all I wanted was my sleeping pills, which she agreed were necessary. I have to see her again in a few weeks to let her know how things are going. But honestly, I don’t know what to say to her. I have good days and bad days. Sometimes when I’m in the shower and I shave I have flashes of me sinking the razor into my skin and watch me bleed into the tub. I wonder if this time I could and then I close my eyes, inhale deeply and go back to reality. Flashes like these aren’t welcome, nor do I want to let them sink into my head more than that half a second when they slip past my guard. I guess I should tell her about them, I had them last time, and the time before that too.

--- if they’d only happen in the shower it’d be neat ---

I look at the clock again. It’s 02:34 and I don’t feel like I’m going to fall asleep anytime soon. Fuck. Should I take one? I glance at the bottle of pills sitting by my bedside, only one reach away, what if…

--- haven’t fallen asleep before 4am in months. 2:30, that’s cute, Wendy ---

  I see myself reaching for the bottle and I open it through the faint light from the outside street lamps. I open my palm and pour as many as I can hold, then I put the cap back on and open the bottle of water. One big gulp, that’s all it takes. I see myself swallowing all of them. Then I go and pull the key out of the door so my parents won’t have to break it when they find me. It’s a good thing they have a key to my place. I go back to bed and wrap myself in the fuzzy yellow blanket I bought a few months back. I don’t think of anything, I don’t feel anything. I watch and think of this like it’s a show about another person that’s just about to end.

No. No. Snap out of it. I blink fast and stare into the ceiling. It’s things like these that keep me awake.
I look directly at the bottle, it’s just sitting there and of all the things to end it, this seems the most painless and easy one. I sigh.
Perhaps another time.

--- yeah, it really does seem the easier way out ---

I don’t know when I fell asleep last night. It doesn’t feel like I slept at all, really, but I don’t remember being awake all night, so I must’ve slept. Today is Sunday. I cringe at the thought of going to work tomorrow. Weekends are precious now, yet somehow I still manage to waste them and not relax at all. I feel constantly tired and it’s days when I feel more tired than usual when I start feeling “bad”.

I remember one day, not long after my latest personal failure, when I had three panic attacks, one at work, one while going home and one at home. That particular day sucked and it’s what pushed me to see the psychiatrist more than my insomnia. I don’t like to think back to how I was feeling that day. All the despair, chocking, hyperventilating and uncontrollable urge to cry, they just…it’s too much at once.

I didn’t have any full blown panic attack since, but I guess this is because every time I start a day feeling bad, I pop a quarter pill right away. And if I’m still headed for a panic attack, I take another quarter, and later that day, I take the other half one hour before I go to bed. Lately I haven’t had “quarter days”, but you know, never say never. I don’t know how I’ll be tomorrow, so I try not to label the days anymore. They’re just days. I wake up, go to work, come back to my empty apartment, maybe eat something and then go and try to sleep.

It’s not like I don’t feel the despair creeping on me from time to time, or like I don’t get the urge to cry myself to sleep anymore. But crying helps. I don’t hold back when I’m alone. I cry, I scream, I punch, myself or something else. Sometimes I feel like I need this physical pain to take my mind off of whatever I’m thinking about. I get the feeling I’d make a really convincing scene if I were an actress, but I’m not, so I get to cry alone, for real, with no one knowing and applauding me for my flawless performance. But lately it’s been getting harder and harder to cry.

---

Aaah the cringe, the cringe is killing me, get your shit together, Wendy, and stop being a drama queen. What could you possibly have been through to justify whining this way? Since I’m pissing myself off, I guess it’s enough writing for today. One thing I’ll have to check is how I feel about “Wendy”, maybe tomorrow it won’t seem like a weird pick of a name.
Bye for now, journal.