Mental Breakdown #298

Another bad day in the life. About every six months, the slurry of anxiety and depression that grows like a fungus in my brain has to be bled out in a day of pure self-destruction. It's been a long time since I cut myself with a razor and I forgot how much better they are to use then kitchen knives. They separate the skin in these thread-like lines and the flesh opens to reveal a gorgeous pink undertow. And the feeling of indulgence and the rush of adrenaline flood my brain and drown the darkness. I tried to dig a nice swirl into my upper arm but I couldn't get it to curve properly so I gave up. The marks were starting to look ugly and the blood was making a mess. Knives just leave dark little dents and holes that don't bleed the way they should. So at least I know for next time.

I have to talk about this out loud because I have to make it feel okay. It's okay because it makes me feel something when I'm feeling empty and it's better than suicide. I don't see what makes it so bad and I don't want help for it. Sometimes it's all I have to feel alive. When there's no love, or music, or sunlight to soothe m psyche. Most of all I wish I could take some time away from my mind but it's impossible. I need a vacation from Earth but I wouldn't come back and that isn't satisfying either. 

This is how I spent my Saturday. I got a haircut and the woman asked what I was doing tonight and I stuttered and tried to think of any thing to say but I just told her "nothing, tonight." I realized I really wished I had more friends. To go to bars with. I wish I had the gall to just go home with some guy and not feel lonely for a night but I know that won't make me happy either. I had an anxiety attack from the paranoia that someone was following me when I took a walk. What the fuck? I didn't eat anything until 9pm. I thought being literally empty might fill me with any other feeling. Pain, aching, focus, determination. I fantasized about looping a belt together and tying the end to the bar in my closet. The tightness of the cinching felt fantastic before I pulled my hands away from my throat and swallowed a dry cloud of air. 

I feel somewhat better now. As best as I can. I'm really scared that I'm wasting my youth. You're supposed to spend your twenties discovering love and sex, making friends, chasing your dreams, and taking pictures. But so for I've spent them alone; cutting, starving, and wishing I were dead.