irregularreconcile
i'm such a coward; these wretched things i do
- Jun 15, 2023
- 65
I already know, the deep, concrete and overall weight of myself is doomed. Already zombified, walking and parasitically trying to blend in with the idea of recovery and betterment is an empty, wasteful trial. I'm lying to my supports, barely meandering accessing more supports as should I tell them the truth, it will be a whole pyramid of illustrating how important for therapists and doctors in my circle to know not to hospitalize me, even though I am suicidal constantly. I say this due to past experience of this working quite well.
I have to die, and want to. But there is also something in me, I believe out of the regurgitated prolife rhetoric, trying to make me bite through a slower, painful death. Why? Trauma is what I can pinpoint, and I expect skepticism from this statement as to why I shouldn't be looking to lean towards recovery if there is still "hope." The "hope" is learned, a simple sliver in my chest, sort of like an annoying fruitfly, buzzing simply because I have people to dissapoint and a fragile relationship with religion and the afterlife.
Something else is wrong, however. Intense moodswings, notable around my qpp and their mother. Extreme sensations of the intensity of my suicidal ideation from a mere day to day fluke or fail, which I know is namely based in trauma experiences, but it is getting in the way of me doing things like: eating, sleeping [I haven't slept writing this,] applying for disability, or even going outside.
Since I've been gone, I either cuddle with my qpp, sleep, masturbate, or sit and play a video game until I forget about, at least, the mental aspects. It's dreadful and looms. I sit and writhe naturally with the metaphorical worms in my brain, eating away. I'm getting worse. I'm always getting worse, regardless of therapy. ECT. Sexual trauma therapy. Inpatient care. List goes on.
I can't escape the truth in my moments of clarity, when I'm not melting my brain. I'm trying so, so so so hard to be "normal" and "healing" in the enviornment I am currently in.
At this time, I need to use up all my art supplies. I'm also a slight hoarder, so it will be a few years. Any semblance of what lies in my mind needs to come out and be left behind before I CTB, which is frustrating, but it needs to happen. For the mentally ill artist brain sake. Chronic pain is making it harder to actually use my supplies, let alone sit and play a game. --> More time exposed to my mind. --> Agony.
I know this is a ramble, and I sincerely apologize for that. I'm shutting down, burning out, and I can't really help anyone even through simple advice IRL anymore, let alone the website. So, I may lurk a while and vent a while. I doubt it will necessarily be a burden, because the main demographic is here to do that.
I'm just exhausted and my mind is more on fire. Have to write fucking poems to make sense, in a way, as I write this. A fucking wild animal. I am so tired and tired and tired and tired. I am screaming all around me with my mouth sealed shut. I am writhing and pulling my hair when no one is around, metaphorical and literal. How can a world so mesmerizing let such suffering happen? What happened to all the things that could have been? It's all answers that can be squashed with a simple Wiki article in world politics, I'm sure, but let me scream and writhe aloud after being so quiet. Why can't I question without need for reason other than ethereal?
I could write forever. I just wish I could CTB now, and not have fear, or an anchor of art and squeezing out care keeping me in place for the next few years. But it's how it has to be. I guess I'll wail and whine and shit everywhere in the meantime. I dunno.
No takeaways from this. I just gotta get it all out of my head. If you read this, thanks. Hope everyone is doing as ok as possible today, considering our circumstances.
I have to die, and want to. But there is also something in me, I believe out of the regurgitated prolife rhetoric, trying to make me bite through a slower, painful death. Why? Trauma is what I can pinpoint, and I expect skepticism from this statement as to why I shouldn't be looking to lean towards recovery if there is still "hope." The "hope" is learned, a simple sliver in my chest, sort of like an annoying fruitfly, buzzing simply because I have people to dissapoint and a fragile relationship with religion and the afterlife.
Something else is wrong, however. Intense moodswings, notable around my qpp and their mother. Extreme sensations of the intensity of my suicidal ideation from a mere day to day fluke or fail, which I know is namely based in trauma experiences, but it is getting in the way of me doing things like: eating, sleeping [I haven't slept writing this,] applying for disability, or even going outside.
Since I've been gone, I either cuddle with my qpp, sleep, masturbate, or sit and play a video game until I forget about, at least, the mental aspects. It's dreadful and looms. I sit and writhe naturally with the metaphorical worms in my brain, eating away. I'm getting worse. I'm always getting worse, regardless of therapy. ECT. Sexual trauma therapy. Inpatient care. List goes on.
I can't escape the truth in my moments of clarity, when I'm not melting my brain. I'm trying so, so so so hard to be "normal" and "healing" in the enviornment I am currently in.
At this time, I need to use up all my art supplies. I'm also a slight hoarder, so it will be a few years. Any semblance of what lies in my mind needs to come out and be left behind before I CTB, which is frustrating, but it needs to happen. For the mentally ill artist brain sake. Chronic pain is making it harder to actually use my supplies, let alone sit and play a game. --> More time exposed to my mind. --> Agony.
I know this is a ramble, and I sincerely apologize for that. I'm shutting down, burning out, and I can't really help anyone even through simple advice IRL anymore, let alone the website. So, I may lurk a while and vent a while. I doubt it will necessarily be a burden, because the main demographic is here to do that.
I'm just exhausted and my mind is more on fire. Have to write fucking poems to make sense, in a way, as I write this. A fucking wild animal. I am so tired and tired and tired and tired. I am screaming all around me with my mouth sealed shut. I am writhing and pulling my hair when no one is around, metaphorical and literal. How can a world so mesmerizing let such suffering happen? What happened to all the things that could have been? It's all answers that can be squashed with a simple Wiki article in world politics, I'm sure, but let me scream and writhe aloud after being so quiet. Why can't I question without need for reason other than ethereal?
I could write forever. I just wish I could CTB now, and not have fear, or an anchor of art and squeezing out care keeping me in place for the next few years. But it's how it has to be. I guess I'll wail and whine and shit everywhere in the meantime. I dunno.
No takeaways from this. I just gotta get it all out of my head. If you read this, thanks. Hope everyone is doing as ok as possible today, considering our circumstances.
