Places of remembranceĀ 

I drove through the town where I used to live for five years until I attempted suicide (twice) today. I wanted to close my eyes as we passed, but I couldn’t. I felt… Dazzled. But not in a positive way. More in a paralyzed way.
My voice would have been husky if I would have been able to talk and I was trembling so hard when I saw all those familiar places where all the terrible things happened. When we drove through the woods where I had tried to kill myself for the first time, I felt like I recognized every single spot though it was already dusk.
This is where I wanted to die, I thought. Where I almost died.
My eyes got wet, but gladly I didn’t cry (I was not alone in the car).
You know, the feelings I got are ridiculous. It’s been three years since then and I actually got over it. I’m not even suicidal anymore, not in almost half a year.
So why did it hurt so bad?
The memories don’t hurt at all anymore. I can’t even talk about what happened without blinking. But the places? Hurts like hell.
Where’s the problem with them?
I’m still shocked by all those images that popped up.

Trying to move on

I really don’t know what to tell you. I feel like I’m stuck somewhere in my sadness. It’s like everything is frozen, my mind is cracked, my soul is numb.
Today I texted a friend and she said something that keeps haunting my thoughts.
This is not how we were supposed to be. How our life was supposed to be.
And I agree with her even though I hate to because.. She’s right. I don’t know what happened to us. When did we go down like this? When did we lose ourselves this way? How could this happen? How could the pain get so bad that Leo had to choose suicide for her release? Why did we break?
Look at us today. So young and yet so damaged.
I wish I was able to write something inspiring and poetic or pathetic or whatever, just something that makes sense somehow and sounds good, but I really can’t. None of this shit makes sense. There is no cure for the pain. We have to fix ourselves, probably we have to move on to do that, but most of us can’t. We need to figure out a way to live with it, with this hole in our hearts. But how?
Death leaves a heartache no one can heal.
You know, it’s weird. It’s been 2 1/2 years since and still there are days when I completely break down because I can’t take a world without you in it.
It’s so sad, I can’t even remember the sound of your voice anymore. The memories are fading away and even though I actually somehow want to move on, a part of me can’t and tries to hold on even though there’s no chance. I was once told it hurts so much because it was real. I don’t understand what that means. All I know is that I have to move on and let go. Not for me, for Jamie. I’ll have a baby in November.
A new beginning.
Another chance.
A new life.
Not as the sicko, as a mother.
And therefore, I need to be healthy. I need to recover.
For my child and for our future together.
Believe me, I do try and struggle as hard as possible. Whenever I feel the pain coming, I try to distract myself in any way possible and I focus on the positive things and my skills and people who are still alive and I can hold on to, but whenever I just take a short break to relieve, the sadness rushes into me like a wave that tears apart everything fragile in its way. Everything beautiful made of sand is being torn apart.
Turns to ashes. And there’s nothing left but the dark wasteland of eternity.
Why is it so hard to let go? Why can’t anything fill this hole?
I need to make it through, for god’s sake! I need to move on. Let go. Start fresh. Be someone new. I know I can do it. I just need to figure out a strategy.
It’s okay.
It’s all over.
I’m alive.
Jamie is alive.
I’ll be happy.
We will be happy.
I can do this.
I can let go.
For my child.

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.

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.

I should be happy- but I’m not.

I’m sitting in the airplane to Barcelona and the thing is, I should actually feel amazing.
I got my ex back yesterday even though he actually wanted to start it off slow this time because I hurt him so badly when I just left him without a word in 2013, but when I invited him to my place ‘just to watch American Horror Story’, I sort of managed it to completely destroy his plan šŸ˜€
Of course I also had sex with him and went to a great concert with a chaotic funny friend of mine later and now I’m spending my week off in Spain and when I’ll be back on Sunday, my bae will come over again and we will ‘cuddle’ (at least afterwards). And next week, my school exchange partner from the Netherlands will be here for 7 or 8 days (I’m not sure) and I expect this week to be a pretty cool one too. The Dutch are known as great guys.
The only bad thing is that my boyfriend will go to his doc on Thursday and he’ll tell him if he got leukemia or not and of course I’m fucking scared of getting this diagnosis.
But that’s actually the only ‘bad’ thing about the upcoming weeks and it’s not really that bad because I mean, I don’t know it yet and it’s possible that he doesn’t even have this type of cancer. Maybe he’s perfectly healthy. (Okay, excluding his heart insufficiency, but he’s dealing with that thing really good)
And I’ll turn 17 next week when the exchange girl will be here and isn’t that actually also something to be cheery about? But somehow I’m not looking forward to it at all.
I hate my birthday. I hate all the candy and the cake and the gifts and that suddenly all the people who usually don’t give a shit about you act nice while they’re talking crap about you behind your back like they always do. Everyone suddenly treats you so nice and friendly and whatever and the day after, they don’t care at all anymore.
Yeah, I kinda hate my birthday expect the 21st cuz, you know, that’s the only one that’s really awesome. You can get drunk like shit and do whatever the fuck you want and nobody can tell you to not do it anymore!
So basically I should be happy about everything expect this leukemia thing but which isn’t even sure yet, but I’m so damn depressed again. My mind is driving me literally crazy. I always try to focus on the good things and even started a so called ‘lucky diary’ where you write down one good thing down about every day to give even bad days a little light, but that doesn’t seem to help. Even my boyfriend got better even though he’s had his shit for like ten fucking years now! Why is everyone getting better and making it through and I’m not? I mean, not to sound bitchy- I’m SOO proud and happy how he’s dealing with everything and actually really didn’t expect him to have so much strength because he REALLY has that. He’s been schizophrenic and suicidal and self harming for so many years now and he really manages to make it through, stay strong and keep going. He hasn’t heard voices or cut his wrists in a year now.
I’m so proud of him and that makes me love him even more. I actually thought he’d be a bit like a problem again that weighs me down again because of his massive issues, but now he’s actually better than me and I’m the liability in our relationship. Crazy how the roles can change.
Damn it, I just want to feel good, but I just can’t! I tried everything and it still doesn’t work at all! Maybe I just don’t deserve it. I don’t know.
I applied for a hospital again where I’ve already spent a few months in 2014 because that was the only one that ever really helped me and turns out that this help still wasn’t enough. I really wish I could do this on my own, but obviously I can’t, so I need some more help because I really want to be healthy one day. I’ll go there in summer to not screw up another school year.
I wanna be able to live a normal life. I don’t wanna be a grenade anymore everyone should get away from because it could burst into flames the next second.
I don’t wanna be the freak in the corner, the girl with this creepy dark mind, I don’t wanna think about killing myself and other people ALL DAY.
Some nights ago I even dreamt about murdering my sister who is the most important person in my life. I woke up and my cruel thoughts scared the hell out of me, but still this sick part inside of me almost got wet thinking about sticking a knife into her chest.
Maybe I’m just a hopeless case. But I won’t give up, not yet. I gotta keep trying.


elena, gifs, and heart image


What doesn’t kill you makes you wish you were dead
Got a hole in my soul, growing deeper and deeper
And I can’t take one more moment of this silence
The loneliness is haunting me
And the weight of the world’s getting harder to hold up

It comes in waves, I close my eyes
Hold my breath and let it bury me
I’m not okay, and it’s not alright
Won’t you drag the lake and bring me home again?

Who will fix me now? Dive in when I’m down?
Save me from myself, don’t let me drown
Who will make me fight? Drag me out alive?
Save me from myself, don’t let me drown

black and white, rain, and ocean image

What doesn’t destroy you, leaves you broken instead
Got a hole in my soul growing deeper and deeper
And I can’t take one more moment of this silence
The loneliness is haunting me
And the weight of the world’s getting harder to hold up

It comes in waves, I close my eyes
Hold my breath and let it bury me
I’m not okay, and it’s not alright
Won’t you drag the lake and bring me home again?

‘Cause you know that I can’t do this on my own
Who will fix me now? Dive in when I’m down?
Save me from myself, don’t let me drown…

Being sad

Right now I’m sad. You’ll be like: she’s suffering from depression, so that’s normal, but it’s not. In my opinion, there’s a huge difference between sadness and being depressed. Because it’s not this typical depression thing when you’re suicidal and hopeless and feel like drowning, you’re more… Desperate. Tired. Exhausted. Powerless. For the typical depressed mood are no external influences and factors necessary, but for sadness, there are always reasons. Today I’m sad because I feel like I’ve lost myself. Again. I just wanna lay in my bed and hide myself from the world. Everything scares me and I just wanna fall asleep and forget about everything, but I can’t. And I’m sad because nothing goes the right way and I’ve been trying to recover for so many years and still this shit doesn’t work! And most of all, I’m mad at myself because of this sadness. It makes me feel so weak and fragile.
I need to be strong, untouchable, titanium. That’s the only way I’ll make it through.
I’d feel better if my best friend was here right now. But now, the razor blade beside me needs to replace her. Both have one thing in common: they never lie to me. But the blades have much sharper tongues. And now I know they won’t help me tame the monster inside of me.
Wow, actually I wanted to write something inspiring or whatever and now it sounds like the worst page in my diary. Can you believe I already won awards at school for the stories I wrote? Me neither.


Sane is something I will never be
Scarred to the core
Battling the devil that lives inside of me
But bleeding out the pain is how
I clearly see
Silence, secrets
Things I can’t openly say
Or I’m labeled psychotic
In a padded room
Wondering how I let it get this way
Laying here where they left me corrupted
So mentally fucked up
Cold sharp tears
That are replaced with blood
Trapped in my own mind
Banging on the edge
To be set free
But it’s apparent
Nobody’s worried about me
And I was left to bleed
Mentally, physically and internally…