Lack of content

I am who I am.
Its funny, you're always being told to be who you are; but all I want to do is change.
Everything: appearance, personality, my life basically.
But firstly my appearance, and I'm trying. Just not hard enough, and I'm constantly disappointed in myself. I will never be good enough. Smart enough. Skinny enough. Pretty enough. Funny enough.
I eat too much food. I'm too loud when I talk. I laugh a little too hard at jokes. I'm as far from perfect, as I can be. And I need to change that. My body is a temple of imperfections. Big, black, hollow, dead.
My days are nothing. I don't do anything. My life is being slept away. Day after day. A little closer to the end. Frightening, isn't it?
This isn't life. I have no life. What's the point of living if there is no life? Can you even live?
Shades of black and grey. Nothing ever happens. Is it my fault? Yes. I know that, but I don't know how to change it. Which brings me back to the fact that I want to change things.

My demons are alive. I am reminded of that everyday: the scars on my body from where their claws ripped open my skin. the echoes of their screams in my growling stomach. But only I can see. Only I can hear. No one notices. No one cares. No one knows I'm fighting. I don't believe anyone really knows me. No one knows everything. They never will. I am a master of disguise.
Even though I do everything to keep my secrets, hide my misery, I want someone to notice.
But they don't notice, if they don't look. They don't look, if they don't care. They don't care.

I am wasting my time, trying to be something people would care about. But they never do. Pathetic. Desperate. A failure.

Hard work

Hopefully this is when my dream starts to come true.
I'm on the path to reaching my goals, but it takes a lot from me; willpower, strength, energy, sacrifice. I just hope that I can do it, even though faith left me a long time ago.
It's not recovery, but it's what I want. I don't care if its getting worse, I just care about this working out. So from now on I need to stay motivated.

Scared and scarred

I've relapsed. Relapsed hard.
My skin, is scarred. Not at scarred as my mind.
Ankles, thighs, hips, arms, wrists, knees. Everywhere basically.
It has become a habit. A bad habit. I'm scared of not being able to stop.
I'm aware of how addictive it is. But it's my addiction. My problem. My life. My way of surviving.
It calms me, and I like to look at it. As creepy as it sounds, the sight of blood, cuts, marks, scars, bruises - it's...how can I describe it? Calming? Maybe. I don't know how to put it.
If you're a self-harmer you probably know what I'm talking about. And yes, it's difficult to admit that I enjoy looking at such things, but I do.
A year went by. My scars had faded, and my mind had healed a little.
It's worse than ever now. My mind is bleeding, and so is my skin. My thoughts are black, and my days are black. My mood is dark, and my life is dark as well.
Searching for someone to talk to, but no ones there:
It's like screaming for help at the top of my lungs, but no one answers, they just act like nothing.
It's like drowning, and everyone is standing three feet away, and tell me to swim.
Hiding my depression in a way that I want someone to notice that I'm not well. Maybe it's buried too deep within. I wish that no one finds out, and I wish that someone does. It's contradiction.
Finger tips running up and down my arms. Thin lines break the smooth skin, like tiny little speed-bumps on a freshly paved road.
The shattered idea of a true love softly kissing my burning skin. Too romantic to ever come true.
Not much is ever going to come true. If anything. No sign of hope. No sign of anyone caring. What am I even doing here?

Dead or alive

Some people hate themselves, ok?
And some of us can't sleep at night, because our thoughts and burning skin are keeping us awake. Some of us don't know why we're alive. Why we are here, and what we should do. We just want someone to care about us. Some of us are disgusted by our own bodies. To the point where we just don't want to live in it anymore. We wonder why no one notices us. We wonder what it's like to be sincerely happy. We wonder how we ended up like this. Some of us torture ourselves with the thought of it all being our own fault. Some of us feel so unattractive that we want to cry. We regret everything we say two minutes after we said it, and can't stop thinking about the fact that we should have kept our mouth shut. Some of us people cut ourselves. That might be to feel something. Maybe even just because it helps. Some of us take pills. Why? I don't know? Because it takes away some sort of pain? Maybe. We tend to smoke a lot. We harm ourselves; we put scars on our naked bodies, and we fill up our untouched insides with smoke and drugs. We don't know how we can torment ourselves like that. We just do. And it comes natural to most of us. Some of us want this, some of us want that. But we need to realize that not all of us will make it out of this alive, but some of us will survive. Let's never forget that.
I'm not sure if we're dead or alive. We're dead, yet still breathing. We're lifeless, yet still awake.
But I know that some of us will some back to live some day.

2

 

I act like everything is fine. I laugh at people's jokes, I do silly things with my friends and I act like I have a carefree life. It's funny though. When I come back home, I just turn off that mental switch. Then suddenly I break down. I feel alone, empty, tired, I can't exactly describe how I feel into words. It's like I have 2 different me's. One for the public, and one for myself. Only if they knew. Only if.