In Her Wake

World, it has been a while since I addressed you last and I am considering making the jump to tumblr with this blog, but I don't know anymore.

In fact I don't know anything at all.

It is me sitting here on the bathroom floor (not kidding),covering the fresh cuts on my legs and feeling sad because everything is wrong. The older the get the more certain you become from the image you have of yourself, the way you should look, the way you should be. Mine has become so vastly different from reality that I am at loss for what to do with myself. I will never be skinny, slightly taller, have prettier hair, have not such an ugly face, have no scars, longer fingers. It is not what I look for in others, it is what I would like to see in myself for various reasons, but it is not me. It is me in the sense that in my head it is me, but it is not. And after three weeks not being able to shower or brush my teeth and finally doing that, I notice that my gums have started receding, welcome to the party of more self-hate. It is just so unfair that in my moments of weakness, the moments I cannot take care of myself, my body give an after-kick, just to tell me that I do not deserve to feel better. Isn't that just wonderful, isn't that just splendid.

Apparently, it was self-harm/suicide awareness day, not that those days are something we think of in Europe, it is the internet that makes us aware. Frankly, I do not so much care about it. My self-harm is not something I want to flaunt in people's faces, even though I do because I refuse to cover them up when the weather is too warm for longsleeves, unless I am at my parents. Somehow people still seem unaware and think it necessary to ask questions on where my scars come from and then I always feel looked at and judged. I know it is my goddamn problem, my fucking mistake that I cannot resist to take that razor and drag it across my skin in the hopes that suddenly I drop 10kg and change my facial shape.

When I see pictures of others that self-harm I feel like I am a fraud, a joke. What I do is barely scratch the surface, they drag their knives and razors across their bones, praying that the mental pain will be over soon. I cut because I feel like it is something I should do, because it is a habit. I cannot deal with physical pain very well anymore but every day I pray that I get sad enough to kill myself, to have so much pain that the idea of taking that razor to my artery and cut it open won't seem to bad.

I'm scared and lonely and the longer I live the more I know that I won't be able to live, I won't be able to function because I am expected to be able to do all these things and I just can't. People won't be here to help me, they aren't here half of the time and I don't ask them for help. So in two years there is a point where I have to take care of myself and I can't and I will end up on the street (which would have almost happened if my parents haven't intervened and gotten me a room).

Also, I feel like because I say so much about suicide and self-harm that no one believes in it anymore, because I use it so freely. But why the hell do I feel like I want to die then, why do I feel that I am better off dead than alive. It doesn't make me suicidal, but fucking hell, this doesn't make me the happiest girl in the world either and in all honesty I really wish I could just die and as I said, I am just waiting for that moment where I AM suicidal and where I really DO want to kill myself.

I have to be up in less than 5 hours, good night world, take care of the ones you love, it shouldn't be me.