Oh my, what the hell with people today?
I saw a question, asking if there are websites in Hebrew of Sleeping With Sirens.
If you don't know any bit of English, why are you listening to bands in English? What the hell is wrong with you?!
That's what every legit person would call a "poser", your friends will still accept you even if you listen to the freaking European Philharmonic Orchestra!
It annoys me more than people who ask things in Hebrew for interviews.
Dude, fuck off, I understand that the accent can be a bit weird and then it would be legitimate to look for a one with English subtitles, but come on!
You have to get used to it!
I, at first, had no clue what the hell did they want from me, it always sounded a bit muffled and the accent made me to miss huge parts, now? Easy-peasy,
I feel like I did very wrong when I told my mother that I want to talk to her.
And yet, there's a bit of me whispering to me that I did well, that I do need to get better, that I should do something about it.
But again, I'll just be even more helpless, what should I talk to her about? Should I tell her about my scale? Because I really think I left it behind, but what if I'd go back to this way and would want to check my scale?
Should I give her some of my razors? Some of my bandages? Because I don't want to give her everything but I also don't want her to suspect I have my tools around so she'd take everything.
Should I tell her that I really want to go and just kill myself? Planning and reading and researching? Deciding that pain killers or sleeping pills, combined with cutting my wrist deeply and falling asleep would probably be rather a peacful death than just hanging myself or anything else.
It would be peaceful, silent, a perfect nothingness.
But why should I tell her that I want to kill myself even though I have no intention of really doing so, the damage I'd inflict on this family... No, I can't do it to them!
I don't even feel real.
I think that's the worst thing.
That I don't feel real.
Sometimes I feel like I'm trapped behind a glass and all I do is watch somebody different than me, taking control of my body.
I just feel fake all the time and sometimes it's so much that I don't know even if I'm real.
Am I just a mask?
I'm not even sure who am I? The what-so-ever normal girl I am near people, or the one who is just a bit-dead-inside one?
Another thing that adds up to it, is the fact that I'm not even there, I'm not enough.
I'm not "depressed" enough to be actually depressed.
I'm not "sad" enough to be actually sad.
I'm not feeling "unreal" enough to be derealisated.
I'm not "joyful" and "happy" enough to actually be happy and joyful.
I'm not feeling "dead" enough to be dead.
I'm not feeling "alive" enough to be alive either.
I'm not enough "hardcore" with my "suicidal thoughts" to be suicidal.
I'm just not.
I'm nothing.
I just wish that my mother would magically forget that.
I don't want to give up on self harm.
I don't think I'm ready.
Hell, the truth is that I'll never be ready but I just don't want to buy again everything, it's expensive as fuck.
Oh, it's on.
I'm probably going to enjoy tomorrow buying myself some off-the-counter lovely things, and fucking end it.
She can't help me, she doesn't understand, I told her I want to kill myself, and she brushed it off as puberty.
I KNOW IT'S THAT DAMN PUBERTY, BUT WHAT TO DO, MOTHER, WHEN ALL I WANT TO DO IS TO FUCKING END IT.
To hell with it, I assume that I'm going to cut properly today and end my suffering.
It doesn't matter anyway.
I want to end it.
It wouldn't hurt her anyway.
My sister doesn't have to know.
Same with my brother.
My father would just... I guess live with it.
I just can't do it anymore.
And I can't stop with crying now.
I guess that realising that she doesn't care about me that much is too much for me.
I need to end it.
I'm going to shower and go into a wonderful night.
I'd probably won't have to write a note, you don't die that easily from blood loss, especially when you don't have some other blood-related issues.
I have returned from showering, I cleaned my wrists and thighs, firmly enough to make it appear slightly red.
Then I proceeded to clean my left wrist and thighs with alcohol.
I don't want to die, but it seems like it's the only option left for me.
Maybe tomorrow, I'd ditch, I'd call to someone, maybe get some help, maybe go to the school's counsellor and hope for the best.
I don't want to go on this way.
I'd end up suffering immensely.
I still hate myself for not having actual issues.
I'm angry about it, but I'm so passive about it, that it's just odd.
I degrade myself from a person to a "pathetic attention whore that needs a wake-up call because she got it going on all the fucking time" because of it.
I was born superficial and I'll die superficial.
I'm wearing a white shirt and burgundy-red knee-length baggy trousers.
It's the most pure thing I can allow myself to wear.
I just want to fall asleep, I'm tired.
Very tired.
But I need to cut.
Ease the pain.
I'm on my beanbag, if I'd fall asleep I want you to know that I love you.
If I'm going to bed and cut like I should, I want you to know that I love you as well.
Not the dumb "I love you" shit that people never really mean to say, but I love you for the fact that you were here for so long, all the time, I greatly appreciate it.
I'm sorry if I hurt you in any way through this blog, but I won't apologise for my actions, I am who I am.
I saw a question, asking if there are websites in Hebrew of Sleeping With Sirens.
If you don't know any bit of English, why are you listening to bands in English? What the hell is wrong with you?!
That's what every legit person would call a "poser", your friends will still accept you even if you listen to the freaking European Philharmonic Orchestra!
It annoys me more than people who ask things in Hebrew for interviews.
Dude, fuck off, I understand that the accent can be a bit weird and then it would be legitimate to look for a one with English subtitles, but come on!
You have to get used to it!
I, at first, had no clue what the hell did they want from me, it always sounded a bit muffled and the accent made me to miss huge parts, now? Easy-peasy,
I feel like I did very wrong when I told my mother that I want to talk to her.
And yet, there's a bit of me whispering to me that I did well, that I do need to get better, that I should do something about it.
But again, I'll just be even more helpless, what should I talk to her about? Should I tell her about my scale? Because I really think I left it behind, but what if I'd go back to this way and would want to check my scale?
Should I give her some of my razors? Some of my bandages? Because I don't want to give her everything but I also don't want her to suspect I have my tools around so she'd take everything.
Should I tell her that I really want to go and just kill myself? Planning and reading and researching? Deciding that pain killers or sleeping pills, combined with cutting my wrist deeply and falling asleep would probably be rather a peacful death than just hanging myself or anything else.
It would be peaceful, silent, a perfect nothingness.
But why should I tell her that I want to kill myself even though I have no intention of really doing so, the damage I'd inflict on this family... No, I can't do it to them!
I don't even feel real.
I think that's the worst thing.
That I don't feel real.
Sometimes I feel like I'm trapped behind a glass and all I do is watch somebody different than me, taking control of my body.
I just feel fake all the time and sometimes it's so much that I don't know even if I'm real.
Am I just a mask?
I'm not even sure who am I? The what-so-ever normal girl I am near people, or the one who is just a bit-dead-inside one?
Another thing that adds up to it, is the fact that I'm not even there, I'm not enough.
I'm not "depressed" enough to be actually depressed.
I'm not "sad" enough to be actually sad.
I'm not feeling "unreal" enough to be derealisated.
I'm not "joyful" and "happy" enough to actually be happy and joyful.
I'm not feeling "dead" enough to be dead.
I'm not feeling "alive" enough to be alive either.
I'm not enough "hardcore" with my "suicidal thoughts" to be suicidal.
I'm just not.
I'm nothing.
I just wish that my mother would magically forget that.
I don't want to give up on self harm.
I don't think I'm ready.
Hell, the truth is that I'll never be ready but I just don't want to buy again everything, it's expensive as fuck.
Oh, it's on.
I'm probably going to enjoy tomorrow buying myself some off-the-counter lovely things, and fucking end it.
She can't help me, she doesn't understand, I told her I want to kill myself, and she brushed it off as puberty.
I KNOW IT'S THAT DAMN PUBERTY, BUT WHAT TO DO, MOTHER, WHEN ALL I WANT TO DO IS TO FUCKING END IT.
To hell with it, I assume that I'm going to cut properly today and end my suffering.
It doesn't matter anyway.
I want to end it.
It wouldn't hurt her anyway.
My sister doesn't have to know.
Same with my brother.
My father would just... I guess live with it.
I just can't do it anymore.
And I can't stop with crying now.
I guess that realising that she doesn't care about me that much is too much for me.
I need to end it.
I'm going to shower and go into a wonderful night.
I'd probably won't have to write a note, you don't die that easily from blood loss, especially when you don't have some other blood-related issues.
I have returned from showering, I cleaned my wrists and thighs, firmly enough to make it appear slightly red.
Then I proceeded to clean my left wrist and thighs with alcohol.
I don't want to die, but it seems like it's the only option left for me.
Maybe tomorrow, I'd ditch, I'd call to someone, maybe get some help, maybe go to the school's counsellor and hope for the best.
I don't want to go on this way.
I'd end up suffering immensely.
I still hate myself for not having actual issues.
I'm angry about it, but I'm so passive about it, that it's just odd.
I degrade myself from a person to a "pathetic attention whore that needs a wake-up call because she got it going on all the fucking time" because of it.
I was born superficial and I'll die superficial.
I'm wearing a white shirt and burgundy-red knee-length baggy trousers.
It's the most pure thing I can allow myself to wear.
I just want to fall asleep, I'm tired.
Very tired.
But I need to cut.
Ease the pain.
I'm on my beanbag, if I'd fall asleep I want you to know that I love you.
If I'm going to bed and cut like I should, I want you to know that I love you as well.
Not the dumb "I love you" shit that people never really mean to say, but I love you for the fact that you were here for so long, all the time, I greatly appreciate it.
I'm sorry if I hurt you in any way through this blog, but I won't apologise for my actions, I am who I am.
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