THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS THINK HAPPY THOUGHTS
I find it kind of sad but no matter where I go, what I am doing, who I am talking to, I will always without a doubt look at their skin for scars. If their sleeve goes up, I stare intently at their arm, if their pant leg moves, I scan their flesh for the tell tale signs. I am horribly disappointed when I don’t see anything, no soft pink lines, or angry red slashes. I want to touch everyone’s skin, and find their depressions and their failures. I want to see that I am not fucking alone in all of this.
I stand in front of my mirror and I find nothing weird about the amount of scars that riddle my body like bullet holes. I find nothing wrong with seeing them scab and flake. I find clean thighs and flawless arms weird.
Thank God for new razors.
Thank you for making me feel weak, and useless. Thank you for leaving me, abandoning me, giving up on me. Thank you for lying to me, telling me it will get better. Thank you for letting me see just how little I meant to you.
I think the butterfly project is utter bullshit. Sorry.
Bitter BitterBitter BitterBitter BitterBitter BitterBitter BitterBitter BitterBitter BitterBitter BitterBitter BitterBitter BitterBitter BitterBitter Bitter
Oh therapy can you please fill the void?
I was hospitalized in April when it was found out that I was suicidal and that I self harmed. I was only there for a week but it felt like a year. The first day I woke up there I thought that I could finally get better, finally become normal. I could stop self harming, I could be happy. By the third morning I didn’t want to wake up anymore, I couldn’t deal with them staring me down, trying to find out what makes me tick, what drove me to suicide. I was tired of the questions, like it was possible to explain over 5 years of depression and suicidal thoughts in one perfect little line, one perfect sentence. How anyone thinks you could get better than astounds me. I got better at lying, “I don’t have suicidal thoughts anymore I’M CURED thank you thank you!.” I told them what they wanted to hear.
I lied.
I’m still fucked up and I still cut.
