This is it
I've finally made a new account. Hopefully a new beginning. I say it over and over again how sick I am of crying for selfish reasons. I allow myself to be so self centered and when I'm not worrying about myself I'm worrying about some celebrity thousands of miles away. Someone who cares I buy their albums, appreciates I go to their concerts, occasionally appreciates their music touches me, maybe guides me. I don't read fiction anymore. Not even cheesy slash fan fiction. Where everyone gets laid either with their bandmates or stunning women. Women described as 'normal' or girls next door. Average, yet more beautiful then I could ever be. I find it amazing that every celebrity who claims they care more about what's inside find a stunning girl who fits that.
It's amazing how often these posts get off topic. I suppose it just reflects me. I'm anywhere, but centered right now. I knew more where I was back when I was tearing apart my skin with my nails, digging in to push away all the pain I was feeling. I knew more where I was when in December I downed nearly 60 pills. I chose to live and I consider it my biggest regret. It was hard not to regret it when my emt started telling me how stupid I was and accusing me of being petty and stupid. Then he asked me if I was still suicidal and every single part of me wanted to scream YES. I continued getting shot down for the rest of the process. Nurse, Attendant, Doctor alike. My Social Service lady even used my words tossed them around, misquoted me then threw me out. Every single person asked me the same question: why?
Why do people do most things. Half the time there's no particular reason it's just what felt right at the time. I had my first suicidal thoughts in elementary school. I took the pills at eighteen. Over 8 years of praying for the courage to down that bottle. Over 6 years asking to see a therapist. Over 4 years trying to get out of seeing one. It doesn't matter how much non-fiction I read, I couldn't of been prepared for it. Therapy sounded great in books. I figured I'd be involved in cognitive behavioral therapy, that was true. I pictured the chairs, the couches, even the soothing paintings on the wall. The one flaw, I pictured someone besides myself talking. I've never had a 'friend'. I've had people in my life who I thought were friends, but their the exact same people I let tear me apart. I gave up on the word 'friend' before I even hit high school. The same time I realized how unhappy I was with who I was. I was as bad as anyone else. I would talk behind peoples backs, purposely manipulate them. I used to think then I wouldn't mind if my husband cheated as long as he came home to me each night. Things have really changed, I've really changed.
I spend almost all my time now trying not to hurt people. Yet that's all I do. I had the signature numb year when I was 12. It's hard to believe a prepubescent girl could have a numb year. Same year I started 'cutting'. I've never used a knife or some dramatic sharp object. I've always used my own skin, my own nails to tear myself apart. It takes time and real need to cut that way. Using a knife it's an instant, a steady stream of blood. If you're going to scratch through the layers of your skin it can't just be impulse. I got the idea to cut from a TV show starring Hayden Christensen [Watching Pete interview him earlier made me think of it]. I lived by that show. It was a teenage drama based on a school for kids with problems like abuse, eating disorders, anger issues, typical troubled youth. 'Jules' cut herself and described it as 'I cut myself to get rid of the pain'. I think I tore through my skin before that, but the storyline inspired me to try new things. Go about it differently. I don't blame the show by any means. Back in middle school I thanked it in all my crap suicide notes.
I'm ending this. It went completely wrong. It's not the opening I hoped for. I made this livejournal, because people found out about my other so I had to put everything on private. To me that ruins the whole point of an internet diary. I plan on reposting everything from my old one. Most of it's crap. It's often missing periods, commas, and structure whatsoever. I suppose this post is just as bad. The nauseous feeling in my stomach says everything. Night.
P.s. I always fear there's some dream guy out there correcting the grammar of my love notes and diary entries. Please give me time and patience, for when I'm short of breath I tend to lie.
It's amazing how often these posts get off topic. I suppose it just reflects me. I'm anywhere, but centered right now. I knew more where I was back when I was tearing apart my skin with my nails, digging in to push away all the pain I was feeling. I knew more where I was when in December I downed nearly 60 pills. I chose to live and I consider it my biggest regret. It was hard not to regret it when my emt started telling me how stupid I was and accusing me of being petty and stupid. Then he asked me if I was still suicidal and every single part of me wanted to scream YES. I continued getting shot down for the rest of the process. Nurse, Attendant, Doctor alike. My Social Service lady even used my words tossed them around, misquoted me then threw me out. Every single person asked me the same question: why?
Why do people do most things. Half the time there's no particular reason it's just what felt right at the time. I had my first suicidal thoughts in elementary school. I took the pills at eighteen. Over 8 years of praying for the courage to down that bottle. Over 6 years asking to see a therapist. Over 4 years trying to get out of seeing one. It doesn't matter how much non-fiction I read, I couldn't of been prepared for it. Therapy sounded great in books. I figured I'd be involved in cognitive behavioral therapy, that was true. I pictured the chairs, the couches, even the soothing paintings on the wall. The one flaw, I pictured someone besides myself talking. I've never had a 'friend'. I've had people in my life who I thought were friends, but their the exact same people I let tear me apart. I gave up on the word 'friend' before I even hit high school. The same time I realized how unhappy I was with who I was. I was as bad as anyone else. I would talk behind peoples backs, purposely manipulate them. I used to think then I wouldn't mind if my husband cheated as long as he came home to me each night. Things have really changed, I've really changed.
I spend almost all my time now trying not to hurt people. Yet that's all I do. I had the signature numb year when I was 12. It's hard to believe a prepubescent girl could have a numb year. Same year I started 'cutting'. I've never used a knife or some dramatic sharp object. I've always used my own skin, my own nails to tear myself apart. It takes time and real need to cut that way. Using a knife it's an instant, a steady stream of blood. If you're going to scratch through the layers of your skin it can't just be impulse. I got the idea to cut from a TV show starring Hayden Christensen [Watching Pete interview him earlier made me think of it]. I lived by that show. It was a teenage drama based on a school for kids with problems like abuse, eating disorders, anger issues, typical troubled youth. 'Jules' cut herself and described it as 'I cut myself to get rid of the pain'. I think I tore through my skin before that, but the storyline inspired me to try new things. Go about it differently. I don't blame the show by any means. Back in middle school I thanked it in all my crap suicide notes.
I'm ending this. It went completely wrong. It's not the opening I hoped for. I made this livejournal, because people found out about my other so I had to put everything on private. To me that ruins the whole point of an internet diary. I plan on reposting everything from my old one. Most of it's crap. It's often missing periods, commas, and structure whatsoever. I suppose this post is just as bad. The nauseous feeling in my stomach says everything. Night.
P.s. I always fear there's some dream guy out there correcting the grammar of my love notes and diary entries. Please give me time and patience, for when I'm short of breath I tend to lie.