Wasted youth

Yeah, I wish I’d been a teen idle
Wish I’d been a prom queen fighting for the title
Instead of being sixteen and burning up a bible
Feeling super suicidal

– Teen Idle (Marina And The Diamonds)

Songs like this one make me think about my teenage years (though it’s actually not my genre because I don’t listen to pop music and such stuff).
If I’m being honest, I didn’t really have something you could call a youth.
I had a childhood, yes, but the way my life was ripped out of my arms afterwards can’t be called teenage years. My eating disorder came into my life when I was ten and I had chronic depression, insomnia and social anxiety by the time I was twelve. Shortly after my thirteenth birthday, I tried to kill myself- twice. My parents got divorced afterwards- and I was even happy about it. The same year, I was admitted to a psychiatry and it was not the last time. Today, I can count five times there and two in a psychosomatic hospital- not to forget the time I spent in the emergency room and the four months in some facility for incurable cases (which is what it was though they would have never called it such a name there) like I seemed to be back then.
Yes, today I am recovering, slowly, but such things take time and I already have progressed so much (no ED or suicidal thoughts or behaviors in 10 months and no self harm in about 16 months or something), but now I’m pregnant and will have a baby before Christmas. Of course I’m totally looking forward to it, my baby is the most important person in my life and I think it’s the best thing that could have ever happened to me, but nobody can doubt it’s too early. I haven’t even finished high school yet. Thanks to the hospitals, I won’t have before 2018.
My youth? About five parties when we had the evening off in the hospital or I was still friends with some junkies who called getting high till they couldn’t spell their names anymore a party.
I’ve accepted the way it is now and in some weird way, it’s never been better, but of course there is also a bitter pill to swallow. The bitter pill called a wasted youth.

The wasted years, the wasted youth
The pretty lies, the ugly truth

Though they’re shallow, unknowing, uneducated and stupid, I’m sort of jealous of the normal teens I see every day. The useless lives they lead give them one thing I’ve never had and will never have: they’re simple, normal, easy and happy.
They go to school from Monday to Friday thinking about their families, friends and exams, spend Friday night in bed with their boyfriends or girlfriends, go shopping or hang around with friends during Saturday, get drunk in the evening with alcoholic beverages they actually aren’t allowed to buy and spend half the Sunday being hungover and the other half studying a little for the upcoming new week.
So simple, so easy, so happy. They make mistakes, usually don’t learn from them either, party and study. That’s it. And this simple kind of happiness those teenage years bring has never been and will never be a part of my life.
What will I tell my unborn son about it one day?
‘Sorry, I was in a nuthouse back then when I should have been an adolescent and then you came’?
I wish Jamie (that’s the name I’ll give my baby) would have taken five more years and I would have had time to do all those average teen things. Away from the disorders right into motherhood- that’s too much in such a short period of time.
I know it’s nobody’s fault and believe me, I certainly do not want compassion or pity from anyone because that makes me feel like a stupid helpless toddler, but I have these regrets deep down anyway. (And the fears of failure and relapses are even worse, but that’s not the topic right now.)
I wish I could change something. But I can’t. The time I could have had is gone and I’ll never get it back, that’s just how it is.

gif, youth, and teen idle image

How people with mental disorders are treated

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0B5nfkaeplc

By writing this, I really don’t intend to play the poor misunderstood victim. I hate it when people do that. My intention is firstly, to write down my feelings, secondly, make others feel understood and thirdly, make people without mental disorders understand.
Today I was able to really get into the feeling of being completely misunderstood again.
Did you ever notice that hardly anyone takes mental illnesses seriously?
You would never go to someone with cancer and say ‘come on, you got a great life, so get over it’. You can’t compare these two things? Oh yes, you can. Both are serious disorders and the person with the disorder NEVER chooses or wants it and neither, it can just be turned off. When you have a cold, you also can’t say ‘hey, this is ridiculous, I’ll just stop being sick’. It’s not how it works. Nobody would ever tell a cancer patient it’s not that bad and he should just stop thinking about it because life is actually so great. Nobody tells him he needs to get over it or he doesn’t have the time to be sick now because there are way more important things. Nobody does that.
Of course you have an influence on the disorder. It’s pretty much impossible to recover if you only focus on the sickness, but doesn’t mean it will fade away if you only focus on the positive things in life. It’s. Not. How. It. Works. You can start the recovery by never giving up and always keep going and all these things, but you can’t just flip the switch and be healthy. I was told once ‘you’re just sad. Get out of your room, do something cool and you’ll be okay’, but depression is not sadness. That’s why we say ‘depressed’ instead of ‘sad’. There’s a difference between being sad and depressed. Sadness is a feeling you can get rid of easily, but depression is a sickness that kills people. Why do you think people kill themselves? Because they’re sad? So when you’re sad, you think about throwing yourself in front of the train?
Why do we do anything to help the ALS patients, but tell girls with deadly eating disorders to ‘just eat normally’?
The brain is an organ too. You can die when it’s sick too, it just happens a different way.
Why I’m writing about this is because I had a conversation with my mom today that caused one of those ‘just keep going, don’t cry, don’t fall apart’ moments (guess you know what I mean). I used to think she was joking when she said ‘we won’t have time for any disorders anymore (once the baby will be born)’. Today I figured out: she wasn’t. I told her about my planned discharge from the hospital on July 8th and she said like it was something taken for granted that I wouldn’t be in ambulant therapy afterwards. I’d be healthy then, right? I was seriously shocked. I’ve been in therapies for four years now (three years mostly in hospitals, one only ambulant) and she still has no idea. I thought she got it after all this time. But she didn’t. Maybe I’m expecting too much from ‘normal’ (don’t know how else to say it) people, but can’t I expect people to understand me after a few years? I started to doubt that thought when she said that.
She told me after this therapy, I won’t have time for another one anymore.
Her real words were: you won’t have time to be sick anymore.
These words were like a dagger in my heart. Realizing that after years, my mom still doesn’t have a clue. There will be more important things, she said.
All I wanna do is cry right now because I just can’t take it.
I’m supposed to just get over it after this therapy because I won’t have time to be sick.
I’ll just have to tell myself ‘I’m healthy now. I’ve recovered. I’m okay’ and then I’ll be.
And everything will be fine because we all know I won’t have time to be sick anymore.
Like I chose to be like this. Like I chose to feel like dying every single day.
Like I wanna be sick. Because it’s just such a great feeling.
My mom said I need to focus on the good things and just stop all this sickness crap.
Like I’ll just flip the switch and be fine.
Damn, she has no idea how badly I want that. I told her, but I realized she doesn’t get anything I tell her about my sickness. When a loved person tells you something like this, it’s like a shot in the breast. And right now, the wound is bleeding like shit.

What has changed since the last time?

I’m back in the psychosomatic hospital (since Wednesday). 

Almost nothing has changed in here. Just the food got better and some therapists were replaced by new ones. I feel like the only thing that was really changed over the past year is me. So much about me has changed since February 2014 (when I got here for the first time). What the people around me notice, of course, is my symptomatic. When I came here, I used to purge ten times per day. I seriously could never imagine a day without it. It was such an important part of my life and now it’s just gone.
The people here asked me what it’s like without the eating disorder because they think the same way they used to. I couldn’t answer honestly because I don’t even know how I actually got rid of the shit. It’s still in my diagnosis, but no longer in my life. Of course the thoughts are still there. They’re getting quieter time by time, but they’re never really gone. There’s always a risk to relapse. But now I now what it means to have an ED. And I know that it will never ever give you what you want. All it wants is your life. It just wants to destroy and kill you and then leave you behind like a piece of trash.
And I feel to precious for that. Also I have a responsibility now to fulfill. I’ll be a mom in November and in my opinion, it’s a mother’s duty to eat healthy as long as the child’s body needs her (you know, the pregnancy and the year afterwards when you give the breast). No matter how sick you are, if you decided to keep the kid, you need to take care of it and always look after it before you look after yourself.
A child needs a mother, a good one. Not one who starves, purges or harms herself.
Of course I know these things are part of illnesses because I’ve had them all, but as a mother you are irresponsible if you listen to a disorder instead of listening to your child and what it needs.
But no one believes me I think this way. They all think I still listen to the eating disorder. I think they think I’m a bad mom. I’m still sitting on a table with all the anorexics and I’m being watched by a therapist during every single meal, no matter how often I tell them I don’t need the shit because I do eat normal and healthy. But they always think they know you better than you do. Which is bullshit.
When I got here, I seriously planned on killing myself. I already knew how to do it. The two suicide attempts I’ve done once (2012) were just two slip-ups, but this time I’d make it right. Today I don’t wanna die anymore. I don’t wanna die inside just to breathe in. I’m tired of feeling so numb. I wanna live, wanna recover, wanna make it through.
Also I stopped self harming. The last time I did it was exactly one year ago and I honestly can’t imagine anymore to ever do that again. Looking at my still extremely deep and visible scars makes me feel disgusted. A blade across my skin? Gives me the creeps today. Weird, isn’t it? All these things that seem so sick to me today once were part of my daily life. Very important ones, actually.
Still sometimes I feel like I’m stuck in the person I used to be.
My mood still goes up and down and I can’t control my feelings. When I’m mad at someone, I imagine tearing him apart like in one of the worst horror movies, when I’m sad I feel like dying, when someone disappoints me with a little thing I wanna cry for hours and when I’m happy it’s like I’m driving crazy. And when I miss Leo, I feel like a part of me has been ripped apart when she died and now one half of my heart is missing. I’ve been trying to replace it. I’ve had some guys in my bed and in my life, had three relationships during the past year, but they were all assholes that just wasted my time and cheered up my genitals.
I’m still searching for the perfect guy, but I think he doesn’t exist.
I think there is the love of my life somewhere even though I’d never tell someone that because I more act like someone who’s always strong and independent- which I am, but still I want someone else. I want a love that consumes me, passion, adventure, a little danger. I want someone who makes me feel glad that I’m alive. A love I’d die for.
He is somewhere, but how am I supposed to find him? I don’t believe in destiny.
I think it’s a stupid excuse for losers who are not able to make things happen.
Wow, I kinda lost the topic. Let’s go back- to me and the illnesses. The reasons why I’m here. I still hate my body. There is the most beautiful thing in the world inside of me, but the rest is still ugly like shit in my opinion. I’ve never met someone who once had an ED and is now able to love the own body in real life. It’s my biggest goal, but I don’t have such high hopes I’m able to reach it. Still the wish is in the back of my mind and sometimes, just sometimes, makes me cry at night.
So many wishes, so many dreams.
I feel like crying right now and don’t even know why. I’m just so tired, tired of everything. And most of all: of myself. It’s all so exhausting. I just want it to be November already. Not that it’s gonna be easier then, but better.

My motivation wall!

Right in front of my room in the corridor, I have covered almost the whole wall with things to motivate me during my recovery. And because I added a new piece today, I’d like to show you the whole wall.

The new one: 

  
The old ones- and because I couldn’t get the wall on one photo, I took one of each piece. (WARNING: most of the stuff is in German cuz I am half German!) 

   
         

That’s it- for now. My way to remind me every day of staying strong and never giving up. I plan on doing more collages and similar stuff to fill the whole wall. 

My story: 1998 – 2015

This is my whole story.

Shortened, cuz otherwise this would take ages.

I’m not really sure why I’m writing it down. I just thought it would maybe help me to figure out some shit in my life when I remember what actually happened. I think it will give me a chance to say goodbye to my past and finally move on. I think it’ll make me able to just consider it as a story that’s told and over.
It all started in 1998 when I was born. My parents wanted a kid, so they got one, perfect little family, we even had a dog and a cat. Everything was perfect and got even better when my sister was born a few months before my fourth birthday. Since then, she had always been the most important person in my life until I got pregnant in 2015.We moved right after her birth and again when I was done with the kindergarten and again when I was about eight years old. My mom is never really happy anywhere, so she loves to move. At that point of time, the cat was long gone and we had two dogs instead and even got two guinea pigs, but they died already after two years because of some illness. We even had a horse later.
On the outside, our family always seemed perfect, but never was.
Hell started when I had just finished elementary school. My father suddenly seemed to realize I was not the daughter he wanted. Since the day he noticed that, he’s never been satisfied with who I am. I will never be good enough for him.
He started to criticize everything I did or said and no matter how good my grades were, they weren’t good enough, no matter how pretty I was, I wasn’t pretty enough, no matter how thin I was, I was never thin enough, no matter how strong I was, I was never strong enough and so on. I assume you got my point.
But something else changed about him too.
His short temper first came up. He suddenly turned into a narcissistic, irascible, aggressive, impulsive, unrestrained, rampant, unbridled, violent person and he’s been like that ever since. Today I still can’t believe how my mother could marry such a person without noticing who he’d actually always been cuz I doubt he just suddenly turned into that person when I was a kid for no reason. He must have had always been like that. I don’t know why, but I assume something went terribly wrong in his childhood, but the only thing I know about that is that his mom never really gave a shit about him. Is that a possible reason for full time irascibility? He should really talk to a professional about that.
I think the thing that I’ve always hated the most about my father is not the fact that everything was always my fault, but that he always acted like we were the perfect family in front of the whole world. He was lying to me and to my mom and my sister and most of all to himself by creating this illusion. Sadly he was even able to keep it until his perfect little daughter finally fell apart when she was twelve years old and had to go to therapy for the first time. When I was ten, I already started to lose my mind, but was able to keep it all to myself for two whole years.
The first illness that came up in my today very crazy mind was my eating disorder.
I was ten and much different than the other kids at my age. I was much more mature and looked and acted like I was years older than them. I spent my time with completely different things and they were all too childish for me. Of course you can’t already be in puberty as a ten years old, but I acted like I was.
Not only I did that, my best friend too. At that point of time, we were like sisters. She actually looked like my twin while my real little sister even had a different hair color.
We did everything together, so when her big sister started to diet and she did it too, of course I also did it. She told me about all the teen shit with boys and weight loss and size zero and whatever and because I was a naive kid, I agreed with everything and suddenly, weight loss seemed to be the solution for all my problems.
Just some pounds and everything would be better! My father would finally appreciate me, I’d be popular at the new school, pretty, perfect, whatever.
And most important: my dad would finally be proud. That was all I had ever wanted him to be. The diet was the solution for everything.
But if it would have been only a diet, I wouldn’t write my story down right now.
It started slowly. No candy, low carb, all the typical stuff. But it wasn’t enough.
And I wasn’t strong enough. I lost some pounds, but right after my eleventh birthday, I lost the control too. And again my best friend had the solution for all of problems.
She had heard that all the models purged when they had eaten too much.
Wasn’t that an awesome idea? We could eat whatever we desired and were still gonna lose weight! The perfect plan! Okay, at the beginning, this plan completely disgusted me and I never wanted to do that. But then, when I had again a huge pack of ice cream with cookie crumbles, I changed my mind and threw up my food for the very first time in my life. Of course it was disgusting, but also so incredibly easy! 
I was really surprised how good it worked, so I decided it to become my backup plan whenever I’d screw up with the diet. Yeah, everything worked out just the way I wanted it to and I was doing fine and no one noticed anything. 
Of course thinking that was fucking stupid. Nothing was fine.
I started to destroy myself without even realizing it.
At the beginning, I purged once a week, but I did it more and more often until I did it every day. Then my bestie realized what I was doing and she said we would never throw up again because she suddenly seemed to get how bad this idea had always been. I didn’t understand her, but because we were best friends, I promised her to stop. She even did it. For her, it was always just a diet, just a part of pre-puberty.
For me it was so much more. I didn’t even realize I had become addicted to my eating (or not eating) habits, I just didn’t want to stop it, so I started to hide it.
I didn’t even know eating disorders existed. For me, it was just my little secret, my way to acceptance and the perfection I was craving for. The eating disorder started to run in phases. Every phase lasted a few weeks. There were basically two types: starving and binging (and purging of course). For some weeks, I dieted extremely, then I lost control and binged every day, but because I couldn’t live with the thought of having all the food inside my body, I vomited again. 
That was my eating disorder, bulimia and anorexia in phases. Sometimes I even starved for some months, but never much longer. I only managed it to have extreme underweight once in my life and honestly, I’m actually proud of it.
My little secret had become such an important part of my life that I couldn’t imagine living without it anymore. But I also started to realize how wrong it was.
I had expected perfection and acceptance, but the opposite happened.
With every minute of my life, the hate I felt for my body became more and more intense. Instead of a thin perfect body I was living in a nightmare and I didn’t know what to do anymore. My whole ‘perfect’ plan was completely falling apart and I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. I was all alone with my problems.
My mood started to get worse every day and I became depressed.
I started to hate my eating disorder, but couldn’t live without it neither.
And because my father had always thought me everything was always my fault, that was the answer to my problems again that time. It was all my fault.
I hated myself even more. Puberty actually started and I got small boobies and hips and a taille and all this shit and I had no idea how to deal with all the shit.
I just wanted it to be gone. To me, there was nothing feminine and mature about it, it was just disgusting fat I had to get rid of. My mood was getting worse every fucking day. Everything suddenly seemed to be so cold, dark, colorless and senseless.
I started to wonder about my life’s sense and the whole world’s sense and all that stuff and didn’t seem to find any answers. I was acting weird and being moody and didn’t know how to handle myself anymore.
I started to think about suicide because I just didn’t know what to do.
Nothing made sense. I hated life, myself, school, everyone.
When I was twelve, I started to plan my death, shortly after I had found new friends. Friends I loved more than my family at that point of time, but who actually weren’t friends. They didn’t just have a bad influence on me, one of them destroyed a part of me that could never be repaired again. He took my virginity when I was drunk for one of the first times in my life against my will, but I couldn’t defend myself because of all the alcohol. He thought I wouldn’t even really realize what we was doing down there because I was already basically half in coma, but he was so damn wrong. 
I realized everything. My skin felt like it was burning even months afterwards. I started to cut myself because I couldn’t live inside my raped body anymore.
Three months after my 13th birthday, I tried to commit suicide for the very first time.
I had been an outcast at school for a few months until that point of time because I had developed an extreme social anxiety. 
Of course I didn’t die (otherwise I wouldn’t be able to write this) and was instead sent to a closed psychiatric. A fucking madhouse, an asylum. The weirdest thing about my time there is that I met the best friend I had ever had before or would ever have afterwards in my life. Her name was Leo and from the first time that we talked we spent all our time in the nuthouse together. Until today she is the only person I’ve ever told everything about me. Isn’t that creepy? I mean, I didn’t even know her. I actually had social anxiety, the doctors even called it a phobia which it actually wasn’t (at least in my opinion). But with her, it was so much different. I still believe we were sort of connected. Our souls, you know. Sounds psychic and stupid, but I still feel like that.
We were both released from custody some time later and stayed in touch every day afterwards until I took a flight to Spain for a vacation with my mom and sister about a month later. During my time in the hospital, my mom had finally thrown my dad out and now she wanted to reunion our family. But this vacation would only make everything worse. 
Before I left, Leo and I promised each other to stay strong and not harm ourselves for that whole week. I really wanted to do this recovery thing with her and I thought she wanted it to. But I was wrong. A friend of mine and hers called me a few days later.
Leo had taken a hundred pills two days before. She’d been in coma for about 48 hours until… Until her heart just stopped beating. My hands were shaking so heavily that I let the phone fall. I couldn’t breathe. For some hours, I couldn’t react to that news flash.
I didn’t talk, grief, cry, laugh or do anything else at all. I couldn’t. I didn’t believe it was real. When everyone was sleeping, I got up again and went outside. 
The moon was sparkling on the pool’s water surface and made me realize what was happening: Leo was dead.
I cried the whole night. And every night afterwards for about a week. I didn’t talk to anyone about it. 
Losing Leo caused my biggest relapse ever. I got to know about her death at the beginning of September in 2012 and in the end of the same month, I took a drug overdose to kill myself. I failed again. They almost lost me in the emergency room, but only almost. They called my survival a miracle, I called it misfortune. 
Y’all know what happened then: psychiatric. Again. Closed until the middle of October and open until the end of January. The difference? You’re allowed to smoke and leave the property together with other patients for 15 minutes per day. 
I actually thought it helped me, but it didn’t. Psychiatric hospitals never help. All they do is lock you up and keep you busy to not make you think about your problems. And sometimes they talk to you to make you believe they care about you- which they clearly don’t. I’ve never met someone with real massive mental problems who recovered in such an institution. But I believed those bitches and left thinking everything was gonna be fine. We moved again and you wanna know what happened at the new school? I was the fucking outcast. The weirdo. The one everyone stared at. From the very first day on. I could stand their insults for almost two months every day until I needed something to relief me from the pressure inside. 
I bought some new razor blades and cut deeper daily- at school. In the rest room. Today the scars are still clearly visible because they were so extremely deep. I’m still ashamed of them cuz I’ve never met a self harmer with such deep cuts. 
Once I blacked out in the rest room because I had cut too deep and almost missed a whole class. My bruised legs were shaking that whole day and it wasn’t the last time.
When summer came, I was underweight and of course starved to lose even more pounds until I started to have black outs when I was running. 
Then even my knees were scarred because of all the shitty stumbling.
It was June and I was always cold, but even though I was more desperate than ever, I was proud because my ribs were clearly visible when I looked in the mirror.
But then my mom stopped everything when she saw my cuts one day and sent me back to the open psychiatric in July. Of course it helped me as much as it had before, but at least this time my mom realized that. But the solution she and my therapist had was nothing but bullshit. 
I had to move into a dormitory for teens with mental illnesses. Worst. Place. Ever. They didn’t give a shit about any of the teens there.
I got worse every day and nobody cared as long as I kept going to school.
It went so far that I had to go to a hospital because of cardiac arrhythmias. I had a normal weight, but my body was more fucked up than ever before because I purged ten times per day. So I stayed in there until they had given me enough infusions and injections so my heart would work normal enough so I could like without any risks in my beautiful dormitory. Sorry, but I can’t be objective when it comes to that place.
And it was not nearly as easy as I had thought to get out of there again.
A few days later, I had to go back to the emergency room because I had massively overestimated my body. The doctors in the hospitals had let me go home after they had given me the infusions, so I thought it would be okay to go party with some friends and get drunk, but thinking that was not so smart. My body completely broke down and I had an alcohol intoxication and of course everyone said it was my fault because of my own stupidity and ineptitude. Which was not true because it was my body’s fault and not mine. How was I supposed to know my heart wouldn’t be able to take some whisky? I was 14 years old.
But it was my fault. As always. 
At least that mistake helped me to get out of that place in January 2014 and I was allowed to move home if I would go back to a mental hospital in February.
So I did, but that time I wanted to be the one to choose the institution because the ones other people had chosen before had always turned out as bullshit.
I chose a special ward in a psychosomatic hospital for teenagers and young adults with eating disorders and depression and it was the very first one that really helped me in my life because they have real therapies there and don’t just keep you busy and lock you up. I stayed there until July and when I left, I definitely hadn’t recovered yet, but I was already much better and had even stopped thinking about suicide.
The rest of 2014 was just a bunch of weird ups and downs, but I made it through somehow. I went through days when everything was fine and I was happy and satisfied and sometimes I woke up in the morning and wanted to die. The worst relapse hit me in January 2015 and that time, I couldn’t get out of the shit on my own. All the great skills couldn’t help anymore, so I had to go back to the closed nuthouse for three days to save me from myself. Afterwards I decided I was not ready to live at home yet, so I applied for the psychosomatic clinic again.
Before I got there, something else happened that would change my life forever: I got pregnant. I thought about an abortion first, but knew I could never do that, so I wanted to keep my baby and started to change something about my life. I stopped smoking, eliminated all the eating disorder habits from my daily life, lived healthy and didn’t even take a sip of alcohol. I wanted to be a good mother for my child.
I considered it was a chance for me to change, start fresh, be someone new. 
The stay in the clinic should be the last one ever. I wanted to say goodbye to the sick life, wanted to show Leo there was another way.
I think my child is my cure even though it’s not even born yet cuz I’m still pregnant.
Jamie will be the center of my life and he or she (I don’t know the gender yet) will be my start into a normal, healthy life. A life as a loving mother and not a crazy weirdo.
I will be able to give my child the life it deserves even though nobody believes I’ll be capable of that. I will prove them all wrong.

Numb- again.

I spent the weekend with my boyfriend. We all know what happened- sex, shower together, he cooked dinner for me, we enjoyed the first spring sunlight of the year and had a drink in the garden. I was happy. He made me happy. He always makes me happy. And now? I feel dead again. Numb to everything. Today I got up in the morning, changed my clothes, went downstairs and cuddled my dogs on the floor while my mom made us some coffee and then, for no reason, I suddenly started to cry. I almost never cry. I hate it. It only makes everything worse, you get even more desperate and look like a stupid, stubborn, helpless child. And that’s the opposite of how I want to be.
But today I did it- in the middle of the living room, on the floor while I was hugging my dogs and my mom made the coffee. That was so weird. I mean, we all always knew I’m sick and crazy and bla, but something like this had never happened before!
Even though my moms arms around me made me feel comfortable and safe, I could have killed myself for being so… needy.
Afterwards, I even went to school and tried to cheer myself up the whole day, but that made me only feel worse. Rollo May said: Depression is the inability to construct a future. Whoever he is or was, I’m starting to believe him. And I hate that.
I just want the fucking month to be over. And the following too. Because in May, I’ll go back to the only hospital that was ever able to help me and then there will be finally new hope for me. They already helped me there last year, it just wasn’t enough yet because the relapses still fuck me up like shit. I wish I could go there earlier, but that won’t work with my school because leaving in April would mean losing another school year and that’s the thing I gotta avoid the most. I will not sit in this high school even longer than I already have to. I already lost one year. Awful enough.
Okay, I have to admit, going back to the hospital makes me feel even more needy than I already do, but I know I need that and they are the only ones who can help me. Because I wanna survive this shit. I don’t wanna die, not after everything I’ve been through! I’ve survived too much to die now. I don’t know if there will ever be a chance for me to completely recover and if you want me to be honest, yeah, I doubt it, but I’ll just keep going and keep trying. I owe myself that. And the ones I love too. I can still kill myself in a few years if everything will fall apart again. But right now, I wanna fight. The thing is: I can’t do it on my own. And at home, I am on my own. Nobody is here to help me. They will never know what if feels like.
I just want the time to go by… Please… I need the help. Now.

Dear diary

A new day has just begun, I’m sitting in a bus on my way to a mountain where we’ll wander with our exchange students today. The sun is shining, I got drunk yesterday, my boyfriend stayed for the night, we had good sex and today he left after breakfast to go to work. Everything is fine, but I wish I was dead. I don’t understand these breakdowns. I don’t understand my mind. I was so happy yesterday and now I wish I had a razor to tear apart my skin. I remember a quote from one of my favorite bands called The Pretty Reckless: my body breathes, heart still beats, but I am not alive.
That’s exactly my condition right now. Even though I’m alive, I feel dead inside.
I really don’t know what to do anymore. I try so hard, but I just can’t get away from this shit. What am I supposed to do? What do you want from me, depression?
I tried everything I could! Why are you never ever satisfied with what you get? I fucking don’t want to die, I want to survive this shit and recover and have the life that I’ve always wanted, the life that I deserve! But it just doesn’t work! I just don’t know what happiness feels like because no matter how good I feel, there’s a pain that’s with me all the time!
Whenever I feel better and things get positive, there suddenly pops up something to destroy me again. There’s a demon in my head making my life a nightmare I can’t wake up from. I just wanna cuddle up in my bed, cover my face with the blanket, turn on depressed music and never crawl out again. I try so hard to hold on and stay strong, but this is basically impossible.
What am I doing here? Why am I acting like this? Why don’t I even remember what it feels like to be lucky? On Monday (my birthday) I’ll officially have depression for four years and the ED for six. No one knows for how long my personality and impulse disorder because no one knows when it actually first came up. My psychiatrist assumes I’ve already been like this as a small child. Such a great motivation. I’ve always been sick.
I’m so incredibly endlessly sad, so desperate, so miserable. Nothing makes sense.
The pants I’m wearing today are too large now because I lost weight. But it’s not enough, not yet. I wanna be thin and fragile again even though I know it won’t make me any happier, but at least I’ll be prettier and the eating disorder will give my life a little control and sense back. I’ll have something to focus on again. The weight loss.
I won’t just keep rotting like I’m doing right now.
This body is a cage, this life a nightmare.
Sometimes I wish I could just end it, end it all, but I have to stay strong.
For me, for my sister and for my boyfriend.
But it hurts so damn much. Every day, every minute, every second of my life.
I’m so glad when I’ll finally be in hospital again in summer. I won’t feel any better there, but at least there will be people who know what to do with me because I really don’t have a clue how to handle myself anymore.
I just wanna die. Maybe I’ll do it. Maybe it will work this time. Maybe I won’t turn 17 anymore. Maybe it will be all over. Maybe it’s better that way.

anger, caroline forbes, and inspiration image

Do you know what it’s like?

I wrote this for some bitch whom I told that I’m suffering from an eating disorder and depression and a few other things she answered something like this: where is your problem? Stop exaggerating. We all diet sometimes and during puberty, everyone has breakdowns and a mood that goes up and down and sometimes even sadness for no reason.
Later I told her about losing my best friend and her answer was: well, everyone dies sooner or later. And by the way, suicide is an act of cowardice anyway. I could also name other things she caricatured, but I guess it’s not necessary cuz you already got the point.
And all that shit coming out of her mouth pissed me off so damn much, but I have manners and higher standards, so I responded this instead of giving her medical definitions she wouldn’t care about anyway:

“Do you know what it’s like when:

– you wake up and want to die
– you slit up your own skin because you think you deserve the pain
– you stick your finger in your throat after every single meal
– you’re scared to leave your bed
– you go to bed and wish you’d never wake up again
– you feel like your skin is burning all the time
– you have nightmares about your future
– you’re rotting from the inside
– all you can think about is death
– you want to kill everyone you love
– you’re scared to even touch food
– you hate every inch of your body
– your body is your worst enemy
– you don’t feel anything at all for weeks expect this endless emptiness
– you don’t even feel physical pain anymore
– you can’t live without pills
– you’re scared to get close but hate being alone
– the most important person in your life dies
– you’re always alone
– no one can help you
– even doctors say it’s hopeless
– you don’t know what happiness feels like
– you feel the urge to kill everyone cuz you think all people are bad
– you can never trust anyone
– all you focus on is trying to numb the pain inside
– the pain is with you all the time
– no matter how good you feel, a part of you always stays dead
– you’d give everything in the world to talk to someone for one last time
– every height, knife or street is a temptation
– you only feel good while hurting others
– you can’t live with yourself
– you feel guilty for every single bite
– you want to punish yourself even though you don’t even have a reason for it

If you don’t, you should better shut the fuck up because you have no idea what you’re actually talking about. And you should be happy about that.
Mental illnesses are demons in your head and they try to kill you every day. Be glad you’re happy and normal, but don’t you dare to stultify people who are suffering from these things.

Sincerely, the ‘stupid little exaggerating girl'”

I know this was sort of exaggerating, but I couldn’t have made my point so clear otherwise.

My story 

Hello world.
This is my first post. For a very long time, I thought about an own blog cuz I thought it would feel good to share my thoughts with the people out there. (And my psychiatrist said it would help me.) So here I go, even with tears in my eyes.

First of all, I wanna tell you something about me. Not things like age and name, I’m talking about the personal stuff. Let’s get started: I moved for 5 times, was bullied for 2 years (age 12-14), have a mom and sis I love and a father I barely know today cuz he’s an asshole, got my eating disorder (anorexia and bulimia which means I either starve or purge all day, that changes time by time) when I was 11 years old and my depression one year later. And then there are also my social anxieties I was diagnosed with at the same age and doctors used to call it social phobia until one of them told me that’s wrong and it’s actually a social disorder. Whatever, docs always change their minds! Also, I have the so called borderline personality disorder and no one knows when it actually came up. To me, it means I can’t really handle feelings. There are overwhelming or they disappear and turn into a horrible emptiness no one can imagine without this syndrome or I just don’t know what these feelings are called. I’m like unable to trust people and afraid of letting them get too close, so I hurt them and push them away so they can’t do it. That’s why I usually stay alone. There are people I love, but I feel like they don’t even know the real me because I can’t show it. I hide behind a wall of lies, act like I have so damn much self-confidence although it never existed in my whole life. I’m a liar, but I can’t help myself cuz I’m way too scared to tell the truth. And because of all this stupid stuff, I started to self harm when I was 12 years old, too and tried a bunch of different ways to do it like burning, cutting, piercing, hitting, slapping and freezing different parts of my body and the oldest scars I have cover my whole legs. I’m glad at least the ones on my arms have disappeared cuz I hate it when I always have to hide them in summer.

What else is crazy about me… I almost forgot my trauma- no, I didn’t forget it, I suppressed and eliminated it. The memories hurt so much. And of course, you want to know what I mean and I’ll tell you because you guys don’t know who I am and I’m anonymous on the Internet. It happened with my first boyfriend when I was 13 years old and because I didn’t tell him my real age, he thought he was allowed to have sex with me. So I lost my virginity and we fucked a couple times and I thought he’d be my one true love (you know, first love is always being overvalued by the teens) until I realized who he really was. An abusive, violent, addicted junkie. Sadly, I noticed it way too late. When he had me, he started to always boss me around and made me feel like his slave. Because of his aggressive behavior I got scared of him and when I said something against him, he hurt me. I didn’t tell anyone (fear!), so I lost control and it had suddenly gotten so far that I did drugs because he wanted me to and had sex with him even when I didn’t want it because when I told him my opinion, he turned from the perfect boyfriend he was in front of others into the fucking asshole. Then there was the day when I finally stood up and defended myself and well… I went through a night I will never forget. He abused me, sexually. Rape. For weeks, my skin felt like it was on fire and I had never hated my body so much before. I felt like I was rotting from the inside. I can’t tell any more details, it’s really private. The only person I ever really told about it died. Also a depressing fact about me. I lost my very best friend. She was the only person that knew everything about me. No one will ever get my whole trust again. I was finally able to completely open my heart and head and… Then she killed herself. Not that I’m mad at her because of it, I know all the reasons. I’m just hurt and disappointed. There will always be something missing in my heart. Emptiness. A piece of me that was ripped apart by this loss. The very best quote I ever heard about this topic was said by Damon Salvatore (The Vampire Diaries):

“When you lose somebody you love, every candle, every prayer is not gonna make up for the fact that the only that you have left is a hole in your life where that somebody that you cared about used to be. And a rock with a birthday carved into it that I’m pretty sure is wrong. So thanks, friend. Thanks for leaving me here.” 

I could never express the feelings better than Damon did in season 4 (watch it, it’s epic).

Because of all this shit, of course I went through a couple therapies. The first one when I was 12, a stupid psychologist who didn’t have a clue. One year later, I attempted suicide for the first time. Tried to throw myself in front of the train. Because of my fear, I had gotten drunk before, so I was so damn stupid to miss the train I wanted to be killed by. Someone in the train saw me and the police found me before the next train could come. (I lived in a cottage, so not many trains passed) I was sent to a locked psychiatric for a whole month and I really wanted to recover. The problem was… They lock you up in there, but don’t cure you. They lie to you and say everything would change. But I never met someone who can say it really worked. This kind of hospital only exists to protect: you from yourself, the world from you or you from the world. The therapies are there to keep you from dark thoughts and boredom. But that’s the fact they don’t tell you in there. Of course I had a bad relapse at home and even attempted suicide again. Deadly drug overdose. You know how easy it was for me to get drugs although the only things I’ve ever been addicted to were cigarettes for 3 years and weed for 4 months. I’m ‘clean’ today. Back to the topic: I didn’t die because I was found by my mom and taken to the hospital by the emergency. I almost died, but barely survived. Today I don’t know if I should be happy or sad about it. Locked psychiatric again, for 3 weeks. Then I was send to an open one. Only difference: school and day-release with other patients depending on how much the doctors think they can trust you. I was allowed to go home after 4 months and yay, had another relapse. I wasn’t stable enough yet and bullied again when I went to another school. But this time, my mom realized my condition before I could try to kill myself again. She noticed it because I was very underweight at that time. The ED made me barely eat and exercise way too often. I spent other 3 months in the same open mental hospital and then people decided to not allow me to go home again. A therapeutical residence or facility, I don’t care how you call it. It was so horrible there and everything was getting worse and worse until even my body almost gave up. I spent some days in a normal hospital because I spit blood all the time and my heart didn’t beat normal. The passing out had already started at the age of 12, but now it was so bad that people noticed something was wrong with my physical health. I couldn’t stand it any longer and told my mom about it because I didn’t want to do another suicide attempt again. Wise choice. We finally found a great hospital, a so called psychosomatic clinic. You know why only this one worked? They have a real therapy concept! You don’t spend your day drawing pictures and making music, you have to cope with your illness! They focus on the reasons why. The disorders are only symptoms for your problems! That’s why their especially for your disorder made therapies work. They know what it is about. And they don’t tell you any lies there. You don’t just get through the stuff in there and then you go home and everything’s fine. NO. That’s not how it works! It’s not like a broken leg. You lay there and wait until the docs have cured it. NO. It’s a very long process and the relapses are part of it.

There is no key to recovery. But this year, I was able to find a way how to get through this without giving up. It’s okay not to be okay as long as you’re not giving up. Yes, I’m scared and I often think about dying and I binge and purge, but I have already gotten so much better! I have a completely normal weight, my body’s fine and today I purge like once or twice a week. I once did it 10 times a day. I also barely self harm, can eat in public, don’t control my weight anymore, can go to school, got my concentration back and I had sex again. Drunk, yeah, to suppress my fear, but I know I’ll soon be able to sleep with my boyfriend without any alcohol. And I’m able to live at home with my mom and my sis. I’ll try to fight, no matter how hard it is because this year, I finally found reasons to live, goals to reach. That’s the most important thing in recovery: a goal.

Although I feel so desperate and empty right now. I’ll just keep going and try to make it through. People don’t want to kill themselves. They only want to kill their pain. Stay strong, guys. Thank you so much for your attention.