(no subject)
It's been a long week.
To be honest, it actually started out pretty good. Two extra days off was really appreciated, but I don't know where it went from there.
For starters, my sister got her acceptance letter to my school, which you need to take a test to get in. When I took the test, three years ago, I ranked 115 out of nearly 23,000 students who actually took the test. And I was feeling pretty good about myself. I even thought myself, you know, intelligent.
But no. My sister has to go and take the same test. And you know what she ranked? 13. Thir-fucking-teen. And of course, that started a shitstorm.
Okay, first off, let me tell you a little about my sister. She's thin, pretty, smart, and a hard worker. She's basically a better version of myself; a fat, depressed, lazy idiot who has more online friends than real ones and dedicates her everything to bands that saved her life. And my parents favor her too. They think that I don't take it personally when they say she's so much better than me. And it hurts. It really does.
You see, I never really had a high self esteem. And the fact that my own family thinks that it's perfectly okay to lower it and lower it is worse. That's why I like to spend 99% of my time alone, in my room, typing away at a computer.
School is equally as bad. No one there knows too much about any physiological issues, and that's fine. I just kind of sit there quietly, just existing. If you can get more than a sentence out of me at once, consider yourself lucky.
But I have social anxiety, and it's bad. I can't do anything in front of more than 3 people before literally having a panic attack/hyperventilating. And I would imagine my public speaking grades aren't that high either.
I'm surrounded by idiots that think self harm is stupid and people that do it are only looking for attention. They laugh when I say that bands are keeping me alive. Then they tell me that my music taste is stupid and that I should try listening to Justin Bieber or some other pop stuff. I politely respect their music choices, though I disagree with it. Yet they think it's perfectly okay to bash bands that are keeping me from taking my life.
Suicide is a touchy subject for me. Not a day goes by that I don't think that I'd be better off dead. I like to think that bands care about me, but hey, let's be realistic. They don't. They have thousands of fans all around the world. What does it matter that some depressed kid in New England took her life? Nothing would change, and I doubt they'd even realize that one of their fans is gone.
Fast forward to today. It was exactly 6 weeks since the last time I've put the blade against my wrist. That's 42 days, a little over a month. It's been rough, considering I used to do it nearly everyday. But I tried to promise to a friend that I'd stop, and I was going pretty strong. I hadn't even intended to cut today; today wasn't too bad. Sure, I had to speak in front of some people a few times, and I failed miserably at it, mostly because there was a really attractive person watching.
Anyways, I was getting a little anxious, not having the familiar dull ache in my arm. Like I said, it's been 6 weeks. When the scars start to fade, I get anxious. I can't help it.
One cut, I told myself. Just one little cut.
But it got out of hand. When I start, it's hard for me to stop. And now, once again, my arm is covered in blood.
And I'm posting all this to get it off my chest. I don't have any friends close enough to talk to, so I'm spilling my guts out on the internet to people that have been nicer to me than anybody else I've ever met in real life (or maybe I'm just too shy. Either way). So there.
I'm not looking for attention. In fact, I was really doubtful I'd even post this. I just thought I'd write it and make myself feel a little better, because this is what I've been thinking about for the past month. Maybe it'd do me some good to see on paper (or computer screen) how I really am. And I still don't like it.
Let's start out counting how many days I can go without the razor now. So far, none.
To be honest, it actually started out pretty good. Two extra days off was really appreciated, but I don't know where it went from there.
For starters, my sister got her acceptance letter to my school, which you need to take a test to get in. When I took the test, three years ago, I ranked 115 out of nearly 23,000 students who actually took the test. And I was feeling pretty good about myself. I even thought myself, you know, intelligent.
But no. My sister has to go and take the same test. And you know what she ranked? 13. Thir-fucking-teen. And of course, that started a shitstorm.
Okay, first off, let me tell you a little about my sister. She's thin, pretty, smart, and a hard worker. She's basically a better version of myself; a fat, depressed, lazy idiot who has more online friends than real ones and dedicates her everything to bands that saved her life. And my parents favor her too. They think that I don't take it personally when they say she's so much better than me. And it hurts. It really does.
You see, I never really had a high self esteem. And the fact that my own family thinks that it's perfectly okay to lower it and lower it is worse. That's why I like to spend 99% of my time alone, in my room, typing away at a computer.
School is equally as bad. No one there knows too much about any physiological issues, and that's fine. I just kind of sit there quietly, just existing. If you can get more than a sentence out of me at once, consider yourself lucky.
But I have social anxiety, and it's bad. I can't do anything in front of more than 3 people before literally having a panic attack/hyperventilating. And I would imagine my public speaking grades aren't that high either.
I'm surrounded by idiots that think self harm is stupid and people that do it are only looking for attention. They laugh when I say that bands are keeping me alive. Then they tell me that my music taste is stupid and that I should try listening to Justin Bieber or some other pop stuff. I politely respect their music choices, though I disagree with it. Yet they think it's perfectly okay to bash bands that are keeping me from taking my life.
Suicide is a touchy subject for me. Not a day goes by that I don't think that I'd be better off dead. I like to think that bands care about me, but hey, let's be realistic. They don't. They have thousands of fans all around the world. What does it matter that some depressed kid in New England took her life? Nothing would change, and I doubt they'd even realize that one of their fans is gone.
Fast forward to today. It was exactly 6 weeks since the last time I've put the blade against my wrist. That's 42 days, a little over a month. It's been rough, considering I used to do it nearly everyday. But I tried to promise to a friend that I'd stop, and I was going pretty strong. I hadn't even intended to cut today; today wasn't too bad. Sure, I had to speak in front of some people a few times, and I failed miserably at it, mostly because there was a really attractive person watching.
Anyways, I was getting a little anxious, not having the familiar dull ache in my arm. Like I said, it's been 6 weeks. When the scars start to fade, I get anxious. I can't help it.
One cut, I told myself. Just one little cut.
But it got out of hand. When I start, it's hard for me to stop. And now, once again, my arm is covered in blood.
And I'm posting all this to get it off my chest. I don't have any friends close enough to talk to, so I'm spilling my guts out on the internet to people that have been nicer to me than anybody else I've ever met in real life (or maybe I'm just too shy. Either way). So there.
I'm not looking for attention. In fact, I was really doubtful I'd even post this. I just thought I'd write it and make myself feel a little better, because this is what I've been thinking about for the past month. Maybe it'd do me some good to see on paper (or computer screen) how I really am. And I still don't like it.
Let's start out counting how many days I can go without the razor now. So far, none.