My fat is a symptom of my loss of safety.  My binge-eating is a symptom of my chronic emptiness.  My scars are a symptom of my inability to regulate my self-hatred and extreme emotions.  My anxiety is a symptom of my fear of both the known and unknown.  My nightmares are a symptom of the abuse and terror I have experienced.

I am lost and I am shattered, but I am not over.

The fact that I am still alive is a symptom of my strength and hope that I can still get better.

— ♥ — ♥ —

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Warning: This is not a shiny, happy post and is going to contain reference to self-harm, even if only in a vague way.  And it’s long so you might want to grab a drink.  🙂

I’ll start this off by saying I know I’m a shitty person.  I have a lot to work on, especially anger management — actually, emotion regulation in general.  I’m fighting hard right now not to scream because I’m so pissed and feeling so trapped.  When Mom and I are fighting, I have nowhere to go.  It’s a 990 square foot apartment and our bedrooms are right fucking next to each other.  Yesterday we went to the movies (saw “Mockingjay Part I,” which was a present for me since Mom doesn’t like the films) and then we came home and Mom went to bed really early.  She didn’t feel well, or so she says.  The last few days she seems to be feeling well/not well depending on what’s going on.  Anyway, I felt abandoned and I admit it, and I know that’s a bad response.  She has the right to go to bed whenever she wants.  But it was Christmas, and I was extremely sad, and I didn’t want to be alone.  (I want to mention that she did this last Christmas too.  I don’t think she wants to deal with the pain of the holiday and I get that.  Obviously, I get that.  I really am trying hard to be fair here.)  Then she started crying and I ended up telling her it was fine, I was fine, don’t worry about me.  And I was so far from fucking fine, but whatever.  What I needed was unimportant.   I fought the urge to cut and was successful.  Yay me. /end sarcasm

Continue reading “Trapped”

Bad Night

Warning:  possible triggers.

The body of missing OSU student Kosta Karageorge was found this morning and fuck it, I’m not a journalist, even though I had always thought I would be.  I’m a person who has been watching this story with the rest of the city (the country) and hoping for the best but expecting the worst.  When I read the text he had sent his mother the day he went missing apologizing for being “an embarrassment,” I knew.  But it’s still a shock when you hear the cold truth.  And as usual, when I hear about a suicide, I start to cry and I think Why am I still here instead of themIt should be me.

How selfish and narcissistic is that?  Very.  This is about Kosta and his family and friends, not me.  But part of me desperately wishes I could give him back his life and I would be found in the dumpster instead.  He had more to live for than I do and a much more optimistic future.  As one psychiatrist told me, I’m a waste of space.  I don’t contribute anything to society.  So I think  Someone like me should be dead, not him.

I’m so fucked up tonight.  Hearing the news that another person has been lost to suicide is just the excuse trigger  (??) I needed to hurt myself but I’m still feeling too much.  Think it’s time to move on to the Klonopin and see if I can stop this self-destructive streak.  Don’t worry — despite how this all sounds, I’m not going to kill myself.  I’m hanging in there and hoping for a better tomorrow.  But tonight I need to zone out and shut down.

love to you all.  I mean that.  You matter.

National Suicide Prevention Hotline:  1-800-273-8255