So this is how it feels. Weightless. Pointless, drifting, and influx is the ever changing diameter of reasonable doubt. Paper people walking among us. Their failure written across their skin. There, forever. Motionless and in solitude. Put together my words, place them into inconsequential meanness rhymes, lies. I try to make it all make sense, is it a disease? All writers indoor, the ever changing servitude to insanity. I want to write it all down but the words rant coming out like the use to. Borderline Personality Disorder. Why is it the addiction to pain is more blinding then pain itself? Does that make any sense? Does the… Why can’t I write?! Why does everything I say come out in this retched and disfigured, mumbled rant. I scream just so they know I’m alive and they pretend I’m sane, tell me its just a phase, but its not a phase if it kills me. If he killed me he wouldn’t even be a murderer he would be that guy who dated the crazy chick, nice, huh? how the world plays out, like some sort of demonic lullaby, singing you to death. Trying to make you forget. Everything changed, I use to dress in all these colors and my favorite color was blue and I’d never kissed a boy and the sky was blue too, like my favorite color so we matched and that made me feel safe. And I smoked a cigarette on the way home from school April 30, 2012. And maybe its cliche or overly symbolic or shit to say my life ended that day, and the day I said I loved him was my last and the day I found the razor was my only revenge. Its a long, winding road, mislaid with As and Bs and Cs. Andrews and Ben’s and Casey’s. Because I loved them all once in that order. And I would like to see them burn in hell for some reason, some reason that warrants me to write, write it down or it will all disappear, that along with my sanity. I must have gone crazy a long time ago. I told Dr. G that when I was 5 I use to imagine my own funeral. He said it was normal. Is that normal? Is being in love with a monster normal, but not just one monster, lots of monsters. Clinging to the hope that they will change and love you and hold you and save you from yourself, no- thats just sad. 28 staples, just another night in my disfunction, confused and cracked head. I sometime thing what I would be like if I ‘d never smoked that first joint- if I’d never kissed him, if the cops didn’t know me byname and if I wasn’t a psych ward regular. What would it be like? would I be happy? or would I still be just as fucked in the head. Snip, snip, snip. Cut away at the rope that holds bye little world together, way if I just let go, told the truth and was set free to live an eternity of shit. So this is not the end or the beginning, we can’t start over and sorry to say, life goes on. But heres the thing, we can get up tomorrow morning. Thats it. Just promise. Thats it.
Person female, 15, began SI at age 13, high school student