I don't know? I don't believe my story is all that unique or difficult. In fact I'm incredibly lucky compared to a most other people in the world. But I just feel like no matter how much I try to communicate or explain no one understands. Why can't I feel a connection? I feel like something is wrong but I don't know what, and meanwhile I just feel more broken. My current therapist I feel has come closest to giving me validation, but I feel like it's because his life experience is so drastically different from mine that he doesn't bring any preconceptions into the room with him, but I can never get full understanding because our demographics are so drastically different. My family does not understand mental health at all, for them it's enough for me to be the token "mentally ill relative," (because of course none of them need therapy /s) but this means they're so emotionally repressed that we simply cannot communicate. I am a person who has put in an insane amount of work over 15 years of therapy, we are just too radically different in our perspectives and self-awareness to have any productive communication. And I have no friends because I'm a loser, so there's really nowhere for me to let out my pain except onto myself, in writing, and into the void I guess. I'm very put together, and I look good with little to no grooming so as soon as people see me they develop a certain schema of me that is just NOT TRUE (but my therapists always write down that I'm well groomed in the treatment summary and relatives always say "oh you look so good" and one asshole told me "you can just be a model" after I had to drop out of college after taking a medical leave- thank my parents for their genes then? But that's NOT ME, I just want to not feel so sad all the time. I know this because people have told me how, "they were jealous of how good I looked all the time" or wondered why I was even in the hospital/treatment center, "you don't seem like you need help." Meanwhile I'm literally standing on a cliff's edge. What use is being pretty? I'm an aromatic virgin, I'm not interested. I don't even leave my apartment. I just want someone to believe me when I talk about my pain instead of pretending I don't exist even when I'm breaking down in tears right next to them. I broke today and wrote this:
2024 was the year my parents killed me. They suffocated me slowly in the name of "helping"me. They trapped me in the name of "protecting" me. They made me kill who I am in order to survive in this prison they built me without going crazy. And because I had to shut down to survive, I didn't have the reserves to even consider escaping (I did try though, and they just locked me back in with lies). I ground half of my teeth away from the stress of simply surviving in their house. They told me that they would help but time and time again when I begged for help, crying, they would turn away. That's how they killed the love in me. Now I'm so fucking broken I don't even know how to go about fixing myself. And I love them still, I always will, but I might also hate them forever too. But if there's nowhere I can go to find love anymore how can I even start healing? I can find peace with myself, I can love myself, but I can't heal without bonds of humanity that I can trust in. They broke me and then the took away any chance I had to be able to get back up again. I have no faith left in anything but myself, and that was a rocky confidence to begin with. So what am I supposed to do now? No matter where I go there will just be more pain and an inevitable death. And at this point why the fuck am I still protecting them from my feelings? Why should I? What right to they have to sleep in peace when I haven't slept in weeks? I hate this hate in me but no matter what I do, it's the only thing that grows because I can't find any paths to healing. But I don't want to die with hate in my heart, I want to die with peace. But I can't do that until they wake the fuck up. Will I still be alive by they time the get there? If I am will I just be a monster by that point anyways? What can I do? What is even left?
I don't like the person I'm becoming, but I don't know what else to do. I want to be heard but I've tried everything and they still don't seem to get it. But I was too desperate and ruined the relationships around me. Now everyone is just burnt out by me. I think too much, I feel too much, I talk too much. They say"it's not that bad" and "you'll be fine." I don't want platitudes. They're tired and I'm still bleeding, so it looks like everyone's worse all around. But I can seem to stop searching for someone to hear me. I am so desperate for someone to just say: "I understand." I am not the kind of person that can live the rest of her life alone, I so desperately want a place I can belong. I I hate that after I worked so hard to love myself, I'm turning right back towards hating myself again. I do not want to be a hateful person, I do not want to be a person that looks down on others or insults them, I don't want to be this bitter bitch I'm becoming. God what am I even saying anymore.
edit: ffs I chopped off my hair with rusty kitchen scissors and people gushed over my new "haircut" but when I beg them to read my poetry it's radio silence, and when they finally read some of my writing they're like "I didn't know you wrote." Okay then past my face and my mental illness what do you know about me.
edit 2 (i really do talk to much): I feel so untethered, in a bad way. like there's nothing left to hold me down to this earth, no connection that will come to mind in the seconds before. I'm drifting along, trying to latch on the moment wherever I am, but even that feels infinitely ephemeral and unreal. When I amongst people, I can see they seem to be part of a larger tapestry, but I can't find the weave that is me among them. I don't really know what I'm doing here. Sometimes, momentarily, I can summon fleeting interest in something. I can feel proud of myself for doing things that are difficult, like the dishes or going for a drive or accepting hard to swallow truths, but these are also limited to disparate moments. I love myself but I do not love life. I feel I do not fit among these people that are moving forward on a larger timeline, rather than me who can only try to anchor herself to moments that pass and go. There is nothing to build on, no dots to connect that make my own life's timeline. I simply do not comprehend the faith in this thing called life. That people can move through the world having an expectation of tomorrow. I do not understand. I live knowing only that my life will exist until the next second or hour or hours, or just until the sun rises. Beyond that, I can hope and grit my teeth and tell myself that I must get to June 7, but it is built on willpower and nothing else. I can tell myself that I cannot die until my apartment's lease is up in a year, but that is purely spite and nothing else. Just a vague resignation that sets my stomach churning. No matter how I twist my imagination, I cannot fathom the me that might be a year away. But for now I have a vague desire to lay on the ground and watch the snow fall on top of me, so maybe that is enough to keep me here along with the spite and the sloshing in my stomach. Honestly though? I don't know. At this point I don't even know why I'm trying. It feels like living has become a habit instead of a choice. That's what happens when you life your life for years just delaying, hoping that something will change. But nothing is changing, and this habit is starting to give me a sense of existential crisis. One that shakes the routines that have kept me safe, that make me stay honest when they ask me if I need help. It creeped up on me a bit, I admit, but I can't shake it now that it's settled: the resolution that I will stay under the radar, "safe," so that when I do decide to kill myself, I can do it cleanly and painlessly, without alerting anyone, and so that it gets done without complications. I am teetering on the edge, same as ever, but it feels like I'm a little but higher and a little less wiser this time around.
2024 was the year my parents killed me. They suffocated me slowly in the name of "helping"me. They trapped me in the name of "protecting" me. They made me kill who I am in order to survive in this prison they built me without going crazy. And because I had to shut down to survive, I didn't have the reserves to even consider escaping (I did try though, and they just locked me back in with lies). I ground half of my teeth away from the stress of simply surviving in their house. They told me that they would help but time and time again when I begged for help, crying, they would turn away. That's how they killed the love in me. Now I'm so fucking broken I don't even know how to go about fixing myself. And I love them still, I always will, but I might also hate them forever too. But if there's nowhere I can go to find love anymore how can I even start healing? I can find peace with myself, I can love myself, but I can't heal without bonds of humanity that I can trust in. They broke me and then the took away any chance I had to be able to get back up again. I have no faith left in anything but myself, and that was a rocky confidence to begin with. So what am I supposed to do now? No matter where I go there will just be more pain and an inevitable death. And at this point why the fuck am I still protecting them from my feelings? Why should I? What right to they have to sleep in peace when I haven't slept in weeks? I hate this hate in me but no matter what I do, it's the only thing that grows because I can't find any paths to healing. But I don't want to die with hate in my heart, I want to die with peace. But I can't do that until they wake the fuck up. Will I still be alive by they time the get there? If I am will I just be a monster by that point anyways? What can I do? What is even left?
I don't like the person I'm becoming, but I don't know what else to do. I want to be heard but I've tried everything and they still don't seem to get it. But I was too desperate and ruined the relationships around me. Now everyone is just burnt out by me. I think too much, I feel too much, I talk too much. They say"it's not that bad" and "you'll be fine." I don't want platitudes. They're tired and I'm still bleeding, so it looks like everyone's worse all around. But I can seem to stop searching for someone to hear me. I am so desperate for someone to just say: "I understand." I am not the kind of person that can live the rest of her life alone, I so desperately want a place I can belong. I I hate that after I worked so hard to love myself, I'm turning right back towards hating myself again. I do not want to be a hateful person, I do not want to be a person that looks down on others or insults them, I don't want to be this bitter bitch I'm becoming. God what am I even saying anymore.
edit: ffs I chopped off my hair with rusty kitchen scissors and people gushed over my new "haircut" but when I beg them to read my poetry it's radio silence, and when they finally read some of my writing they're like "I didn't know you wrote." Okay then past my face and my mental illness what do you know about me.
edit 2 (i really do talk to much): I feel so untethered, in a bad way. like there's nothing left to hold me down to this earth, no connection that will come to mind in the seconds before. I'm drifting along, trying to latch on the moment wherever I am, but even that feels infinitely ephemeral and unreal. When I amongst people, I can see they seem to be part of a larger tapestry, but I can't find the weave that is me among them. I don't really know what I'm doing here. Sometimes, momentarily, I can summon fleeting interest in something. I can feel proud of myself for doing things that are difficult, like the dishes or going for a drive or accepting hard to swallow truths, but these are also limited to disparate moments. I love myself but I do not love life. I feel I do not fit among these people that are moving forward on a larger timeline, rather than me who can only try to anchor herself to moments that pass and go. There is nothing to build on, no dots to connect that make my own life's timeline. I simply do not comprehend the faith in this thing called life. That people can move through the world having an expectation of tomorrow. I do not understand. I live knowing only that my life will exist until the next second or hour or hours, or just until the sun rises. Beyond that, I can hope and grit my teeth and tell myself that I must get to June 7, but it is built on willpower and nothing else. I can tell myself that I cannot die until my apartment's lease is up in a year, but that is purely spite and nothing else. Just a vague resignation that sets my stomach churning. No matter how I twist my imagination, I cannot fathom the me that might be a year away. But for now I have a vague desire to lay on the ground and watch the snow fall on top of me, so maybe that is enough to keep me here along with the spite and the sloshing in my stomach. Honestly though? I don't know. At this point I don't even know why I'm trying. It feels like living has become a habit instead of a choice. That's what happens when you life your life for years just delaying, hoping that something will change. But nothing is changing, and this habit is starting to give me a sense of existential crisis. One that shakes the routines that have kept me safe, that make me stay honest when they ask me if I need help. It creeped up on me a bit, I admit, but I can't shake it now that it's settled: the resolution that I will stay under the radar, "safe," so that when I do decide to kill myself, I can do it cleanly and painlessly, without alerting anyone, and so that it gets done without complications. I am teetering on the edge, same as ever, but it feels like I'm a little but higher and a little less wiser this time around.
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