Three hours of sleep.
Fucking hell!
My body is giving up on me.
My body is giving up on me and I have no idea if whether I should be happy and satisfied with it, or weep and mourn over the loss.
I guess it's a bit of both.
After all, my main effort was to destroy my body, make me incapable to be good.
I've done it through minor cuts, then undereating and overeating cycles, and then through deeper cuts.
Now my body won't get a rest.
The funny thing is that after taking two sleeping pills, I sleep less.
I really don't want to go to school today.
Hell, I never want to go to school, but I've got option.
This day is going to be crappy.
And is going to be worse without having earbuds that will entertain me.
Seriously, two periods of Athletics and then two periods of maths?
I can't do that!
I'm a fucking dead-athlete, and I'm running jokes about it.
And maths.
Oh, it's better if I don't get started.
But, it's three thirty three and fuck you, I need to waste time.
I can't do maths.
I hate the period not because of some teenage rebellion bullshit of "I hate school because learning is shit and I come only for my friends anyway", but it's because I'm stupid.
I'm seriously too stupid to bear.
I don't have a clue how I manage to do the things I do.
And while getting a 94 in science after missing tons of school day is nice, I don't feel like a good student.
Or 92 in Arabic even though that I didn't know half of the words.
While Yael who conversed with me [it was those out-loud exams that can possibly humiliate you in front of everyone] got 96, and she pretty much said everything fluently.
I'm not supposed to get 100 in that nature-loving-patriotic-whatever class, especially if I missed many lessons and the fucking field trip.
How come?
But the sixty nine and seventy two, they fit me well.
Espacially with the words: "I expected for more."
Oh god, how it can perfectly describe what's going on my head most of the time.
I'm a disappointment.
I'm a failure.
I'm dumb.
I hurt everyone.
I let down everyone, over and over.
My personality is shitty.
Just being around me can get you stuck with troubles, perhaps even permanent issues.
I don't know what my friends find in me.
They are pitying me, aren't they?
I mean, that's the only reason that I can think of, why else should they be my friends rather than out of pity?
I'm not interesting.
And of top on that, I'm not interested in their "romance" crap.
I'm rude.
I'm brutally honest.
I'm fucking not okay in the very base level, as I take sleeping pills that don't work, try to chemically reboot my brain, and how can I possibly forget the hormonal fixing of dydrogesterone? Caused only by my fucked up eating habits.
I'm a danger to my surroundings.
Just give up body, surrender... You don't need to fight, you just need to submit to me, and work along.
Cooperation is the key.
But cooperation may also be the lock that keeps you away, isn't it?
I need to scar myself.
Scarring makes me feel better.
Finally, my outside is as repulsive as my insides.
This is my signal of "Stay away from dying people, or the one in the road to."
Ten minutes to four.
I miss the cuts.
It will force me to avoid rather fun activities, and undressing and changing to surfsuits will be even worse.
I guess it doesn't really matter, I don't like the beach and I just feel awkward and silent there most of the time.
I'm just scared of physical examinations, and I'm supposed to have one, if I want to be able to go to competitions.
But what if I would fail?
I'm sure it's possible.
But I guess they don't check my adrenaline levels that keeps on shooting and messing with me.
You know, I have pretty much nothing to do when I'm at home.
I don't play the guitar mostly because I'm so bad that id rather not, and I'm not allowed to stay in my room.
I don't draw, because people tend to see what I'm drawing, and fuck you, I'm trying to safely and uncensorly express my thoughts and sort them out. IN FUCKING PRICACY, if I wanted you to see it, I would personally present it to you! But I chose not to and it has a fucking meaning!
I don't do anything but sitting and altering between the Toshiba laptop with spore, to my touchscreen HP which is my main laptop.
My mother told me that at the mornings when I wake up early, I should watch TV so I won't think.
Because my "poisonous thoughts" must be talked about with her or Dolly or Lee [mother, psychiatrist, psyhologist] and I shouldn't have them.
I won't call them "poisonous" even though it's very tempting to do so.
I'd call them truthful, or a hormonally-fucked-up-tween thoughts.
I just should kill myself already.
The finale would be my death, and I'd rather to have some control over that, making sure that it's as pleasant as possible.
Probably dying from liver failure with the agonising pain that accompanied with the discomfort can't be all that well.
Guns are loud.
Hanging isn't, but regretting it is easy.
Crucifying is a bit over dramatic.
I guess I shouldn't die until I've experienced some pleasures of the flesh, including doing some outrageous things.
And I defiantly need to try a cilice!
A silica around my thigh and skirts, or lose trousers, or on the arms, hidden by loose sleeves, or around my waist, once again hidden by the loose fabric that will cover my body.
Wow, it'd be beautiful.
Maybe I'd be extreme enough to sharpen some of the needles [?] of the cilice.
It'd be so nice.
A punishment for my wrongs, even though it'll never be enough, but at least it would be something.
Maybe I will have to make it every once in a while tighter, because weight loss is a bitch that may destroy your body, but I'd b too busy at marvelling as the rope tightens its grip on the loop.
Okay, six fifteen, and I still can't believe.
I really hate Tuesdays.
They are worse than Sundays.
I am at school until three, and then I have at four thirty the Cabria, and with each day I dread it more.
I know that usually I'm happy there.
But I can't trust myself with this unstable moods, which my father noticed as well.
He said that we need to balance it out.
But I don't want no balance, I don't want safety, I don't want clarity, I don't want happiness.
I don't need it, and I clearly don't deserve it.
I just deserve to never have freedom, to have no choice, to see my end coming and to be utterly helpless....
No.
No-no-no-no-no-no-no!
Not with your pathetic and oh-so-miserable bullshit.
I really fucking hate you when you do it, you act like some silly over-hormonal twat.
And don't you dare to justify it over your dydrogesterone consumption!
You took fucking six tablets last night, and you're totally not going to be this way.
In the end we all know how it'll end, don't we?
We'll block and terminate the one who destroys it all, and this time it is the pathetic coward being over-hormonal and over-emotional all the fucking time.
And to think you almost turned us against the decision of not crying!
I don't want to hear you ever speak like that, extermination is always an option.
It's six thirty, I hate my self, I'm listening to Placebo and blogging, waiting for the rest to wake up.
Maybe I will have to make it every once in a while tighter, because weight loss is a bitch that may destroy your body, but I'd b too busy at marvelling as the rope tightens its grip on the loop.
Okay, six fifteen, and I still can't believe.
I really hate Tuesdays.
They are worse than Sundays.
I am at school until three, and then I have at four thirty the Cabria, and with each day I dread it more.
I know that usually I'm happy there.
But I can't trust myself with this unstable moods, which my father noticed as well.
He said that we need to balance it out.
But I don't want no balance, I don't want safety, I don't want clarity, I don't want happiness.
I don't need it, and I clearly don't deserve it.
I just deserve to never have freedom, to have no choice, to see my end coming and to be utterly helpless....
No.
No-no-no-no-no-no-no!
Not with your pathetic and oh-so-miserable bullshit.
I really fucking hate you when you do it, you act like some silly over-hormonal twat.
And don't you dare to justify it over your dydrogesterone consumption!
You took fucking six tablets last night, and you're totally not going to be this way.
In the end we all know how it'll end, don't we?
We'll block and terminate the one who destroys it all, and this time it is the pathetic coward being over-hormonal and over-emotional all the fucking time.
And to think you almost turned us against the decision of not crying!
I don't want to hear you ever speak like that, extermination is always an option.
It's six thirty, I hate my self, I'm listening to Placebo and blogging, waiting for the rest to wake up.
They are usually up by that hour.
I wish the day was cancelled.
I hate this day's schedule, and I don't know if I' be able to stay awake until three.
Hell, until three I'd be awake for over twelve hours.
My head hurts.l
Fucking wonderful,
Ten minutes to seven, I'm listening to Hurt.
I just understand.
"And you could have it all, my empire of dirt, I will let you down, I will make you hurt..."That's only one of the many things that are relate-able.
I should probably get ready.
It's not even a question if I want to go or not.
It's whether I can function or be sent back to that institution.
And I'd die [or at least try] before I get back there.
Oh well, another day on the horrid path towards my birthday, making me everything I didn't want to be at fourteen.
Fucking depressed, on medication, experienced a bit too much, and guess what?! NOT HAVING SHOPPING WITH SUPER GIRLY-GIRLS WHILE BEING STEREOTYPICAL TEENAGE GIRLS FROM AMERICAN HIGHSCHOOL MOVIES. THAT'S WHAT.
I'm supposed to buy horribly colourful clothing pieces, and be disgustingly happy about it, admitting that I feel false attraction towards a male or two, but I would never admit any type of lust, because it's frowned upon.
I fell asleep for about another three hours.
Well, more of two and half or two with half a hour or a hour of being semi-concious.
I didn't understand why I was on my bed, and why it was night, I opened my eyes and saw my room, I feared that I slept until six am of the next morning, and I panicked as I opened my for the second time, seeing that I was exactly where I fell asleep.
Watching Perception in my mother's bed.
You know, in thirty five minutes, the cabria is going to start.
And I don't think I'll come.
Why should I anyway?
The group is better when I'm not there, and I don't know if I'd be able to control myself and my mood swings, and I don't want to let down others, and I fear of going there,
I don't feel like me.
I feel like I could legitimately start crying now, and walk to the room where the balcony used to be, and rock back and forth, pressing my forehead to the glass window, and think, think very hard, how hard it is to let go, and how oddly it feels, both right and wrong, but in the end I won't do it, because I will not hurt and let them down this way.
My mother thinks it's bad that I'm distancing myself.
I feel like I'm not very myself lately, and therefore, it doesn't matter if my body will be there or not, as the one who usually controls it isn't there.
I don't want to live.
Everyday I face numbness or sadness, I'm a bit exited every once in a while, when I sleep a lot [or think that I slept a lot], and when one of my online friends chat with me, but it's not quite excitement.
It's more of a distant glint of it.
I'm listening to Too Many Friends.
I know I should be at the cabria, hanging around for ninety minutes, and then walk along and talk until we reach the falafel shop.
I guess I'm going to chat with "I Don't Want To Exist" which is a very known account, a very good listener, a sixteen year old male.
I just think that it's not that bad that I distance myself, it's just one step forward towards the beautiful end that will come.
By the way, I want the Taiwanese marching band in my funeral.
Or at least not be buried outside, which is truly shameful.
Okay, I was also supposed to turn fourteen and be confused with sexuality, not with fucking diagnosis and denial.
I'm supposed to wear some ridiculously pricey thin material from Bershka or American Eagle or whatever that is popular, not wear the exact same colours like a fucking cartoon character.
I guess I just fucked it all up, didn't I?
I'm going to take from now on to take the fluoxetine at mornings, maybe it'll ease my sleeping issues.
Oh, hears my favourite part of Take the Pill.
"Don't you want to be sedated, don't you want to ease this pain,
if the pills are not effective, then we will electroshock your brain,
we are not happy with your progress, you're not yet considered sane,
if these pills are not effective, we'll electroshock your brain"
I know why Dolly won't prescribe me sleeping pills.
At first I was confused, but the answer was just under my nose.
What would I do with pills that can kill me?
Fucking overdose.
I told my mother that I know why she didn't prescribe me, and whrn she asked why I told her that I'm not going to tell her now [if my siblings would know that I'm suicidal it'll just make this path more familiar and normal, it will lure them into self destruction], I think she got what I meant, but I'd make sure later that she knows why their hand on the prescription trigger isn't that light.
I guess nobody can fully understand how terrifying it is for me, that I'm always on the very edge because I'm afraid that I'd be put back into this hell hole.
I just feel like my future won't hold anything that's actually worth something, so far, all I live for is to return the duty, punish myself, and of course, experience certain things.
I'm probably not going to get married or have kids, I have a very tough time believing that I'd be a fair wife, and I won't even start with being a mother.
At most I'd donate my uterus for service of births, I don't mind it really.
I am nothing.
Just titles and names.
Other than that, I'm nothing.
Labelled on the third grade as gifted and started questioning my fitness in there lately.
I guess I was born to die.
Born to Die.
A song of Lana Del Ray.
And here are the thoughts about Gal.
I've been told she's doing fine, and it's very comforting.
If she was worse, oh, I can't even put it in words, the agony she would suffer, and I won't be there.
I guess that I just need to see her before I leap off to my death.
Oh no, not now.
I'm starting to cry.
I just love her so much.
Too much.
I just can't bear myself.
I've hurt such a beautiful, delicate, fragile, lovely person.
And I didn't do anything about it.
I just let her go and lose herself.
I deserve to die.
No.
I don't deserve the luxury of being eased from the pain.
I certainly don't deserve to live, but you don't have to be dead in order to stop being alive.
I deserve to feel pain, so much pain, endless one.
I just want to stop being.
I've hurt her so much.
I don't know if she'd ever be able to forgive me, or that I'd ever be able to forgive myself.
I don't deserve forgiveness, mercy, love, safety, clarity.
I deserve to suffer.
Oh, I don't want to exist was online just now... Sadly he didn't reply to me.
I feel a bit emptier than before.
I guess that I need to go to sleep.
Or at least try.
I wanted to say that I'm going to cry but I really hate rhyming when I sound so pathetic.
Goodnight, have sweet dreams.
Or just sleep well.
Whatever floats your boat.
I wish the day was cancelled.
I hate this day's schedule, and I don't know if I' be able to stay awake until three.
Hell, until three I'd be awake for over twelve hours.
My head hurts.l
Fucking wonderful,
Ten minutes to seven, I'm listening to Hurt.
I just understand.
"And you could have it all, my empire of dirt, I will let you down, I will make you hurt..."That's only one of the many things that are relate-able.
I should probably get ready.
It's not even a question if I want to go or not.
It's whether I can function or be sent back to that institution.
And I'd die [or at least try] before I get back there.
Oh well, another day on the horrid path towards my birthday, making me everything I didn't want to be at fourteen.
Fucking depressed, on medication, experienced a bit too much, and guess what?! NOT HAVING SHOPPING WITH SUPER GIRLY-GIRLS WHILE BEING STEREOTYPICAL TEENAGE GIRLS FROM AMERICAN HIGHSCHOOL MOVIES. THAT'S WHAT.
I'm supposed to buy horribly colourful clothing pieces, and be disgustingly happy about it, admitting that I feel false attraction towards a male or two, but I would never admit any type of lust, because it's frowned upon.
I fell asleep for about another three hours.
Well, more of two and half or two with half a hour or a hour of being semi-concious.
I didn't understand why I was on my bed, and why it was night, I opened my eyes and saw my room, I feared that I slept until six am of the next morning, and I panicked as I opened my for the second time, seeing that I was exactly where I fell asleep.
Watching Perception in my mother's bed.
You know, in thirty five minutes, the cabria is going to start.
And I don't think I'll come.
Why should I anyway?
The group is better when I'm not there, and I don't know if I'd be able to control myself and my mood swings, and I don't want to let down others, and I fear of going there,
I don't feel like me.
I feel like I could legitimately start crying now, and walk to the room where the balcony used to be, and rock back and forth, pressing my forehead to the glass window, and think, think very hard, how hard it is to let go, and how oddly it feels, both right and wrong, but in the end I won't do it, because I will not hurt and let them down this way.
My mother thinks it's bad that I'm distancing myself.
I feel like I'm not very myself lately, and therefore, it doesn't matter if my body will be there or not, as the one who usually controls it isn't there.
I don't want to live.
Everyday I face numbness or sadness, I'm a bit exited every once in a while, when I sleep a lot [or think that I slept a lot], and when one of my online friends chat with me, but it's not quite excitement.
It's more of a distant glint of it.
I'm listening to Too Many Friends.
I know I should be at the cabria, hanging around for ninety minutes, and then walk along and talk until we reach the falafel shop.
I guess I'm going to chat with "I Don't Want To Exist" which is a very known account, a very good listener, a sixteen year old male.
I just think that it's not that bad that I distance myself, it's just one step forward towards the beautiful end that will come.
By the way, I want the Taiwanese marching band in my funeral.
Or at least not be buried outside, which is truly shameful.
Okay, I was also supposed to turn fourteen and be confused with sexuality, not with fucking diagnosis and denial.
I'm supposed to wear some ridiculously pricey thin material from Bershka or American Eagle or whatever that is popular, not wear the exact same colours like a fucking cartoon character.
I guess I just fucked it all up, didn't I?
I'm going to take from now on to take the fluoxetine at mornings, maybe it'll ease my sleeping issues.
Oh, hears my favourite part of Take the Pill.
"Don't you want to be sedated, don't you want to ease this pain,
if the pills are not effective, then we will electroshock your brain,
we are not happy with your progress, you're not yet considered sane,
if these pills are not effective, we'll electroshock your brain"
I know why Dolly won't prescribe me sleeping pills.
At first I was confused, but the answer was just under my nose.
What would I do with pills that can kill me?
Fucking overdose.
I told my mother that I know why she didn't prescribe me, and whrn she asked why I told her that I'm not going to tell her now [if my siblings would know that I'm suicidal it'll just make this path more familiar and normal, it will lure them into self destruction], I think she got what I meant, but I'd make sure later that she knows why their hand on the prescription trigger isn't that light.
I guess nobody can fully understand how terrifying it is for me, that I'm always on the very edge because I'm afraid that I'd be put back into this hell hole.
I just feel like my future won't hold anything that's actually worth something, so far, all I live for is to return the duty, punish myself, and of course, experience certain things.
I'm probably not going to get married or have kids, I have a very tough time believing that I'd be a fair wife, and I won't even start with being a mother.
At most I'd donate my uterus for service of births, I don't mind it really.
I am nothing.
Just titles and names.
Other than that, I'm nothing.
Labelled on the third grade as gifted and started questioning my fitness in there lately.
I guess I was born to die.
Born to Die.
A song of Lana Del Ray.
And here are the thoughts about Gal.
I've been told she's doing fine, and it's very comforting.
If she was worse, oh, I can't even put it in words, the agony she would suffer, and I won't be there.
I guess that I just need to see her before I leap off to my death.
Oh no, not now.
I'm starting to cry.
I just love her so much.
Too much.
I just can't bear myself.
I've hurt such a beautiful, delicate, fragile, lovely person.
And I didn't do anything about it.
I just let her go and lose herself.
I deserve to die.
No.
I don't deserve the luxury of being eased from the pain.
I certainly don't deserve to live, but you don't have to be dead in order to stop being alive.
I deserve to feel pain, so much pain, endless one.
I just want to stop being.
I've hurt her so much.
I don't know if she'd ever be able to forgive me, or that I'd ever be able to forgive myself.
I don't deserve forgiveness, mercy, love, safety, clarity.
I deserve to suffer.
Oh, I don't want to exist was online just now... Sadly he didn't reply to me.
I feel a bit emptier than before.
I guess that I need to go to sleep.
Or at least try.
I wanted to say that I'm going to cry but I really hate rhyming when I sound so pathetic.
Goodnight, have sweet dreams.
Or just sleep well.
Whatever floats your boat.
No comments:
Post a Comment