I wish you could delete your blog. I get so weird when I'm left alone
| Psychology and Mental Health Forum | |
https://www.psychforums.com/blog/vertices/index_start-5_sid-7af3d2d01103dfa96611c6aef846084b.html |
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| Author: | vertices [ Sat Oct 26, 2013 7:19 am ] |
| Blog Subject: | Cutting *tw* |
Cutting isn't really cathartic for me. Yet I started cutting again. I don't know, I wasn't really thinking. Cutting was never an outlet for me because I grew up around a mother who did it constantly, it was a symbol of her neglect, and I had nothing but disgust and contempt for it my entire life.... I think I just did it to prove to myself how ###$ up I was feeling at the time. So I don't cut because it feels good, I know something is really wrong when I cut because I'm simply doing it to antagonize myself, to prove to myself that nothing I believe is actually true in that moment, to prove to myself that nothing is sacred. That's why breakdowns are so scary, it's like everything gets flipped on its head and it feels good to do things I never should want to do, and I am watching myself destroy everything but I can't stop. |
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| Author: | vertices [ Fri Oct 25, 2013 5:13 pm ] |
| Blog Subject: | blog |
I wish you could delete your blog. I get so weird when I'm left alone
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| Author: | vertices [ Fri Oct 25, 2013 12:07 am ] |
| Blog Subject: | blah |
I looked at my old posts and sort of realized just how ######6 crazy I am. Not like obviously crazy but subtly, the nefarious kind that's nefarious because you don't really realize it's there until ugly things happen, not crazy in the moment but crazy if you piece all the moments together, but then it really shines. It really shines when I break down, something snaps inside and then I become somebody else, or nobody, more like a cloud of chaos assuming human form for a while. As my boyfriend would say, it makes sense that some people believe in possession, but the problem is that it's no demon, it's the real self--the utter emptiness inside, the all-consuming underbelly, the end product that you get when all the fake affectations merge together and cancel out. It starts with me, dragging me inside, ripping me apart, and it tugs and pulls at everything around me, hurting people, hurting things, leaving a trail of destruction as it moves around, impressing itself onto every surface. It's The Real Me--the only thing that is consistently there through all the change and all the situational BS--darkness, disgusting darkness and ruin. It's the direct opposite of everything that should exist in its place, every time I reached out and people pulled away, every time I hated myself and nobody loved me to balance it out, a thousand hugs that never happened exploding on the wall and the floor and all over my arms. I don't know how truthful I'm even being, 'cause all I even know anymore is that I don't really know or trust anything about myself, but I needed to get that out of me anyway. |
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| Author: | vertices [ Tue Jul 02, 2013 7:55 pm ] |
| Blog Subject: | Poison |
I'm not going to lie, I'm feeling a little fragile right now. Actually, I have been feeling that way for a very long time.. But I think if there was ever a time in my life where it REALLY showed, that has been lately. At some point I discovered alcohol and that wasn't such a great thing. It's literally a poison. But even though I say that, even though I quit cold turkey when things got really bad, I gotta say I miss being able to be numb every night. Sometimes it feels like life itself is a slow-acting poison and basically you just have to expose yourself to the most benign forms of it where possible. If you get in too deep, the toxicity overwhelms you, and then you have to step away for a while until you can get back to a normal, acceptable (healthy?) level of sickness. You know, I want to change so much. I really want to be better to myself. But every thought is a drip of poison. How did it get to the point that I can hardly exist in my own head? As far as I know, I don't even DESERVE to be unhappy anymore. I could make something of my days now but I don't. What is it... fear? Actually, I don't think it's that. Fear is there but it hasn't stopped me from doing anything I felt really committed to, which was a magic thing when I did feel it, but doesn't come often. I think it's just a lack of momentum... Is that the part that's my problem? I don't know. But I'm going to try, really try, and remind myself to keep trying, to at least stop thinking poisonous things, 'cuz god knows the world has enough poison to go around without creating any of my own. 
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| Author: | vertices [ Wed Jan 04, 2012 4:54 am ] |
| Blog Subject: | The untreatable patient wants not treatment... |
As every day rolls by, like a gigantic, ugly boulder headed directly toward the fragile tower of cards that is my life's balance, I really start to want to just laugh. Just real good, like one of those sudden laughs in the movies with just a little too much spirit and that lasts just a little (or a lot) past the point of being awkward and creepy. It's like a bad joke. Like... you know, this isn't *really* my life, this is just a silly gag show. Look, there's the camera over there, right behind the flower pot I never remembered buying. Hah, I knew it!  But no, schizophrenia, there is no camera. Nobody's even watching. If they were, they'd probably be really, really, bored. There isn't a punchline and there's no moral to the story. This is the real deal. Just me wasting life that I say I don't care about anyway, when I kind of actually do in an on-and-off sort of way. Just serial failures--and the /only/ true failures nonetheless, those being the failures to try. You ever heard that one? Sometimes I wonder how many brilliant people out there could have given all the famous over-achievers a run for their intellectual money, if only they had worked up the willpower to not be a parasitic, mega-introverted failure. I'm using the word parasitic kind of lightly here, because really, those parasites are just smalltime; they're only sucking the blood of another, much fatter parasite. And if you think enough and humbly enough, nobody's a parasite anyway... really just a catalyst for exchange of one thing or another. But that's beside the point. So time goes by and I continue to play that old guessing game: the one that goes, "how #######5 do things have to become before I'm willing to do something about it? Answer after a brief word from our sponsors." And I have to keep topping myself, so that now I have about enough faith in my abilities to envision my lonely passing next to some creek off of a suburban roadside when it was like minus ten out, but I would have felt much too guilty and trashy to steal a nice sleeping bag from the local wal-mart, and a little grossed out at the possibility of meeting another human being should I try squatting in some abandoned building. Yes, rest in peace. That's a death for a queen--the kind where you die. |
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