I cut myself today.

Not that this is irregular,
Of course,
As you well know.

Or do you know?

You said that you're sorry
That I'm not doing well
At the moment.

But neither are you.

I will never tell you this, but
I message you only
When I cannot hide my worry.

Nothing I send is for me.

You won't care, of course.
You certainly try to hide being ill.
As most minutes I hide

The all-consuming agony

That is how much I care about you.
Don't you leave me.
Don't you ever ******* leave me

Again.

I try so hard
not to hear
your quiet tortured sobs
ripping through my head

I try to sleep
but I can still feel
the weight of all your tears
weighing down my pillow

I try to ignore
searing pain gnawing
my every tender limb
from the blades you took to yours

I try to close
my bloodshot eyes to block
images of your bloodied body
laying beneath once clear water

I try to move
but its as if Im frozen standing
watching you fade away countless
times, your heart never stopping

I try to reach
hoping to touch your weary face
wanting to wipe the misery
from your beautiful eyes

I try to show
you I exist but every time
I reach for you I break the mirror
and youre gone once again

-ARI

A barren wasteland
Of fear, doubt, and regret
Uncertainty plagues the sand
A horrendous fate, that we have met.
society became its own destroyer
The catalyst of this hopeless future
There's time to change
But were consuming ourselves
All of us

(I wrote this almost a year ago, and I just found it.)

You tell me
that you love me.
I’m not sure
as to whether I should say,
"I love you too,"
or “I know.”
Because I spent my whole childhood
believing in second chances
but I’ve also spent my life
believing that I never deserved them.
That praise was something
to which I would never be entitled.
That other peoples’
time
effort
company
were things I would never
be truly worthy of,
and even calories
were a foreign substance
that I would never deserve.
I have mastered the art
of filling myself
with relics of isolation
and the hopes that nobody
will get too close,
for I will surely drown them.
Suffocate them.
I can not let myself think
that you might actually care about me,
I can not let myself believe
that I am worth what you say I am,
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry that you got
stuck with me,
and that you allowed yourself
to feel something more for me
than I ever could for myself,
I’m sorry that I dream of you now
and that your name is always
in my thoughts and on my lips,
it is addictive in its toxicity.
For I fear that if I go too long
without saying it,
that it will disappear.
But at the same time
I feel as thought I say it
too often,
but I guess the phrase
"too often"
needs perspective.
I can not let myself believe
that this does not come
with a punchline,
that you do not come with
an ulterior motive,
that the beat my heart skips
and the catch in my breath
are not the product of a joke.
Because my thoughts are screaming
inside of my mind louder than my voice
could ever tell you that I love you too,
and the shrieking and shuddering sobs
that escape my lips
as blood trails like springwater
down my arms
are so quiet, I am amazed the world
cannot hear.
I am amazed that my virtually nonexistent voice
does not ring in the ears
of anybody who stops to listen
but simultaneously,
I am glad.
Glad that nobody can take
the solidity of mental illness in love
away from me.

don’t think there’s anything beautiful or romantic about hating yourself. It’s a highly hypocritical point of view because somewhere down the line I’m sure I’ve reblogged something of the sorts, but there is no reason why suicide or self harm should be glorified.

There’s nothing beautiful about physically being unable to move because every day tasks are so daunting you’d rather just stay in bed. There is nothing beautiful about being unable to get close to people without losing large pieces of your self-esteem and self-confidence every time. There is nothing beautiful in logically knowing what you feel isn’t how people see you, that you’re worth something, but still physically not being able to make yourself happy. There is nothing beautiful about cutting yourself, burning yourself, putting yourself in physically abusive situations. There is nothing beautiful in thinking “how many pills do you think I’d actually have to take to die” or “how long do you think it would take if i sliced my arm” or “what’s the least painful and cleanest way to do this”. There is nothing beautiful about being torn about whether you want to **** yourself for yourself or stay for your family. There is nothing beautiful about looking at yourself in the mirror and hating every piece, every inch, every out of place lock of hair. There is nothing beautiful about writing a note, having to tell everyone that it’s not their fault. There is nothing beautiful about not being able to maintain your happiness on your own. There is nothing beautiful about it.

It doesn’t make you special, cool, interesting: it’s not supposed to be a doorway for. attention. People don’t understand that I don’t choose to physically have to stop myself from ending my life. Things like “suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem” and “suicide is so selfish” make me so ******* angry. I get that, I’m not an idiot, if I die I die but tomorrow the sun is going to to come up and maybe I won’t have to sit alone at lunch again, or maybe I’ll make another friend, or maybe I won’t fail another test. But there will always be more of those temporary problems, there will always be more failed tests, there will always be more broken hearts, there will always be more. And whenever I think of suicide I don’t think of it as my temporary problems, I don’t think of it as that 17 on a spanish test or that rejected job application. I see it as, I won’t have to wake up tomorrow hating myself, I won’t have to wake up in the morning and physically push myself to get out of bed (like I couldn’t do today. It’s 11:47 on a tuesday morning and I”m still in bed from yesterday’s clothes because I physically couldn’t change into my pajamas last night, or make myself get up this morning). When I think about suicide I think about realizing that I won’t have to feel this ever-aching pain in my chest that never goes away. I think of all the people I won’t let down in the future, and all the people who won’t let me down. Hell yes it’s ******* selfish, I’m not stupid, don’t treat me like I am. It’s the most selfish thing you can do. But sometimes all I want to be is selfish because I give and give and give and never get anything back in return. I would die for my friends and anyone else that I care about but it’s like if I disappeared they wouldn’t notice. That’s all I want to do sometimes is disappear.

Please, don’t try to tell me that, oh just think happy thoughts. It’s like telling a ****** addict to “just stop” or an alcoholic to “just not drink”. It doesn’t work that way. I give every ounce of myself to other people and other things because I can’t keep any of it, because no matter what I do I feel like I’m not good enough. I have a 3.5 and climbing GPA. I have a mother and father that love me. I have an uncle and a grandmother that are always there for me when I need them. I have two beautiful baby nephews, and a loving sister. “there’s nothing you should be depressed about”, but the externals don’t matter when there’s nothing for you inside.

I don’t know how to explain this, and it’s different for everyone, but for me, there’s nothing to live for but my best friend. I know if I left her, she’d follow me, and I can’t have that on my hands. But that shouldn’t be the only reason I’m alive. That shouldn’t be the only reason I didn’t take those pills. Everyone needs to find a reason to be happy inside of themselves, and it’s so ******* hard to do when I see things glorifying and beautifying suicide and depression.

This is the reason why no one takes it seriously. By spreading this, no one seriously thinks that someone has a problem. By just saying, “oh my god I’m gonna **** myself” people don’t take it seriously. Mental illness is not just something you can get over, it doesn’t just go away, you can’t just think happy thoughts and it’s gone. During the happiest times of my life I destroyed everything I had because I didn’t think I was good enough, and there were always better options. I don’t love myself. I hate myself. I hate that I can’t make people happy. I hate that I’m not enough for people. I hate that I’m not as pretty as anyone else. I hate that I’m not funny. I hate that my own flesh and blood despise me, and are disappointed in me. I hate that I couldn’t save him from his own demons, that I couldn’t get him to just put the ******* bottle down. I hate knowing that some things aren’t my fault but always blaming myself for everything ****** in my life. I hate that all of my love wasn’t enough for anyone to stay. I hate having to try to save people to save myself. I hate having to have some kind of external verification and justification for my life.

Just because I can make jokes and laugh until I cry around other people doesn’t mean I don’t wake up every hour crying, or doesn’t mean I don’t come home and isolate myself because I don’t want my parents to see me destroyed. People need to understand this isn’t romantic. This isn’t something you want to be. This isn’t something you should strive for. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone. It makes getting close to people scary, if not dangerous. It makes everyday tasks so much harder than they have to be. I don’t know if any of this made sense to anyone, and I’m sorry if I insulted anyone with mental illness, this is just my views from my personal experiences. Just, think before you speak. Think before you post. Think before you glorify something that could be destroying someone else.

I’m sure people might look at me differently for this. I’m sure people might be surprised that there have been numerous times where if I had gone through with it I wouldn’t be here. I’m sure people might be disgusted, ******, angry at me for speaking my mind. I’m sure some people might think I got it all wrong. But I need to speak my mind, and I need to share what I believe, because it seems like no one I talk to understands how I feel.

k.s

p.s. please if anyone needs to talk, my inbox is always open, anything. I can hold on, but sometimes it’s hard and I always wish I had a crutch. Please, just before you do anything, talk to someone, try to talk yourself out of it, or find someone to talk you out of it. I know I said we need to find something to love within ourselves, and I believe that 100%, but you can’t do that if you’re not breathing. Just try to hold on to find that something. I haven’t been living for the past six months, I’ve just been holding on, and I’m still looking but you can’t give up hope. Please, don’t give up hope.

My body is a canvas;
And whether I decorate it with
Tattoos or cuts
Shouldn't be your problem.

The truth about my recovery?
I lied
I told the truth
I was better.
So much better
a different person
truly, really,
not the me that was dying to die a year previous.
for six years the monsters consumed me
It starts so subtle.
She’s skinnier.
‘No I’m on a diet’
‘I’m a size 0’
your best friend skips lunches.
slowly, surely, the monster slips into your head.
your nightmares are living
compulsions start.
too young.
don’t eat in front of people.
one granola bar will get you through practice until home.
and all the comments egging you on.
‘you aren’t skinny enough for that..’
‘but if you eat salad all summer’
Soon you can’t look at yourself.
Soon the Monster of self hatred turns you to more
because the diets aren’t enough
so spring break after a bowl of corn chips
you close the bathroom door
and the porcelain becomes your ally.
friends may know.
but you can be sneaky.
after all, how else would you manage your size?
Eventually it isn’t enough, you want quicker results.
And the monsters of self hatred are eating you up.
you’ve grown now of course.
pushed away friends who knew who wanted you to get help.
Because this Monster, This darkness in your mind,
your only friend.
No more food.
leave crumbs and a buttered kife.
anything eaten, behind the bathroom door.
And very soon
The blades come out to play.
So intriguing how easy it is.
and how simple to hide.
What an easy release.
17 and 110 lbs, covered in scars on her hips.
I did get help.
I went to therapy.
I loved it.
I didn’t just change these acts
I changed myself.
But I wasn’t better, I was anxious
to be done with it
to be set free.
So I stopped going.
when I wasn't totally ready.
I thought I was happy..
But is that why I relapsed?
It was only once.
But is that why I still find myself depressed?
Sometimes suicidal?
Is it my fault?
It’s usually my fault so I can see how it would be.
I lied.
That’s the truth.
And
I
Don’t
Know.
But I do know
this recovery is a continuous fight.
And I just wonder
Where am I now?