Sometimes, on nights like this one, when I sob uncontrollably, my options seem very slim. The first one, the best one, that comes to my mind is always, always, always suicide. I don’t think of it as abstractly as that though, no; I imagine in great detail how I would do it. It always baffles me, because I honestly couldn’t care less anymore how my soul leaves my body, if I even believe in souls. Pills sounds fine to me- slow, painful, but still dead. The best option though is probably to make gashes in my limbs that mimic the ones already there, but larger, and deeper, and hitting arteries. Obviously, I’d do this in the bath, because it’s considerably easier to clean that carpet. Ironically, I love baths, and this is where I’d die.

Sometimes, on nights like this one, when I stare at a wall and try to convince myself that suicide isn’t the only option, my brain moseys over to thoughts of the second best option- self harm. It wouldn’t be anything new. Why not? As long as it’s not visible and as long as no one knows, who does it really hurt? I can see it now, experimenting once again with gash depth and length, watching to figure out if it makes the blood gush or spurt, flow faster or slower,  bead or ooze. But this isn’t an option: I wrote my college essay on this very subject. I said that I’m getting better, that I know I won’t go back.

So maybe college isn’t an option.




When you think of the word, in a deeper sense, what is the first thing that comes to mind?
For some, it’s falling in love. For others, it’s falling in life. The two are dramatically different, and one person will probably think of the two different sides at multiple different points in their life.
For me, lately, it’s been the latter. I’m falling, and not in a good way. Every step I take, I hit a rock or a bump and fall flat on my back. The breath is pulled from my lungs, the optimism from my head, and the hope from my heart. And when I finally pull myself back up, there’s all this weight in my chest and stomach and limbs and pretty much every where. It tugs and drags me down until I fall again, and each time I hit harder.
I don’t know how much more I can take.



I’m struggling to even find the words to write this post. I’ve typed it many times already and deleted it all, so here’s to another try.
I’m struggling in more ways than I think I realized until today. I’ve been sort of pretending that I’m okay, and maybe it worked for a while, on and off.
I had an episode a few days ago, where I got some new blades. I just laid here, the blades on my lap, cried and shook, and tried to not feel pathetic. Not because I would cut, but because I wouldn’t. Not doing it makes me feel pathetic, like I’m not strong enough.
I’m struggling with the fact that my scars aren’t deeper, that they aren’t darker, or more numerous.
I’m struggling to feel normal… to feel okay.
I’m struggling with my self esteem. It seems I can’t feel decent about myself without showing my body to a boy (or girl). And so now when I do that I feel even worse about myself. It’s a vicious cycle.
I’m struggling with a particular boy. I’m not certain how he feels about me, but I actually like him quite a lot. I’m not ready to jump into a relationship but I think we could be good together. If he liked me, and was willing to “talk” to only me. But he’s not, and it kind of hurts my feelings more than it should.
I’m struggling with not feeling good enough. I feel like I’ll never be good enough for anyone, in any sense, in any capacity. Not for my parents; I’ll probably never be a hot shot in whatever career I choose. Not for my siblings; I’ll never be the conservative Christian cis woman that they want me to be. Not for my friends; I’ll never be the most available, the most fun, the most interesting. Not for a love interest; I’ll never be smart enough, skinny enough, sane enough, sexy enough, or lovable enough. They’ll always cheat, or lie, or just leave.
I’m struggling with wanting to put myself and everyone else through dealing with me.



My heart is shattered, broken like thin sheets of glass.
The shards are so sharp that they cut me open.
I bleed; but I do not bleed blood, I bleed pain. At first, it’s a gush.
I know it will turn to an ooze at some point.
I don’t know if I await this eagerly or with dread.
Once the gush recedes, I am left with this overwhelming loneliness.
Loneliness and numbness have been my best friends, but I also hate them.
I hate them because they don’t help. They don’t pick up the pieces.
And truth be told, no one ever will.

He left.


You Don’t

You don’t tell me you miss me anymore, even if I say it first. Even if I’m happy, for once, and wrote you saying how much I can’t wait for you to be back home; even if I’m sad and wondering why you don’t feel the same. You don’t say it back, because you don’t miss me.

No one should have to feel like the person they miss most in the world doesn’t miss them.

You don’t tell me you love me anymore, even if I say it first. On occasion you do, but it’s rare, and I feel like that’s opposite of how it should be. Doesn’t it seem that in a relationship if one says they love the other, the other would respond in the same sense more likely than not?

No on should have to feel like their whole world doesn’t love them back.

You don’t care anymore about anything I send to you, whether it be selfies, pictures of stuff that I did, when I tell you about my day or a story, when I talk about my blog, or when I say how upset I am. Sometimes, you don’t even respond.

No one deserves to feel like the person they care about the most doesn’t care about them.

You don’t try anymore; even if it’s obvious how upset I am. You make excuses, and you don’t listen to what I say. I’m serious when I say that I will leave you if this doesn’t get fixed. I’m giving you time to fix it, but baby, times a-tickin’, and this is getting old.

No one should have to feel like they aren’t worth fighting for.

You don’t ask me anymore if I have done anything harmful to myself, or how my day was, or ask me much in general. You don’t call me cute nicknames, you don’t say you miss me, you don’t say you love me, you don’t show me that you care. (And your excuse of not being in the mood or having time is bull. It’s not that hard to type “Baby, I love and miss you,” instead of “What’s up?”) Our conversations aren’t conversations, they’re small talk. If I wanted small talk all the time, I wouldn’t have agreed to be your girlfriend. I wouldn’t have let myself fall in love with you if I had known you were going to stop being in love with me.

No one, not even me, deserves to sit curled up in a ball in the bottom of the shower and wonder why they aren’t good enough. Wonder why they aren’t loved, or missed, or cared for.

Why am I not enough?




Finally, a decent day.
Finally, a day where I don’t feel sad the whole time.
Finally, a day where I felt normal.

Today, today was a good day. Well, good is a strong word, but compared to the past ones, it was heaven. I smiled today, and I meant it, and it happened multiple times. Even when I was alone.

Today we didn’t fight. Today I perfected the art of parallel parking. Today I bonded with my sister over a small Netflix binge of Baby Daddy.

Today I cut off yet another person who doesn’t care about me, and today I feel more confident about my body. I feel more confident of myself. I feel more confident in my abilities, and I feel more confident in my attributes.

Finally, a day where I was only sad in small increments, and it wasn’t overwhelming. Everyone gets sad sometimes, right?

It’s been so long since I’ve felt happy for more than a few fleeting moments, and I am going to cherish it. I know it may not last, but I refuse to dwell on it. Finally, things might be starting to look up.


My Perspective

To me, depression is normal. It’s wearing the same shirt for two days straight, and not cleaning your room. It’s the lack of motivation I feel for everything- for school, for my relationships with everyone, for eating, for sleeping, for hygiene, for everything. It’s being angry, and being sad, and being numb, all at once.

To me, anxiety is constantly worrying that I’m bothering people. It’s being shakey for seemingly no reason, and wanting to reach out for help but being to afraid. It’s wondering if I will ever get into college, and if I do, how I’ll pay for it.

To me, paranoia is feeling like every word I speak or write, every thought that I have, is pathetic. It’s feeling like there’s no one in the world who really loves me. It’s feeling like even having this blog is just stupid.

To me, self harm is only ever a thought way. It’s always there, beckoning me like a siren does a pirate. It’s irresistible.

To me, living is painful. Breathing is painful. I’m lost, and I just don’t know what to do anymore.


A Letter to You

I’ve reached the point of no return- it’s fix it, or we’re done.
I love you, so much.
But I have changed my backgrounds because it’s too painful to see your face, knowing that you don’t care if we talk. Knowing that I’m not important to you. Knowing that you haven’t called since you left for vacation except the very first day, and you’ve had time. Knowing that you use every possible excuse you can think of to not be in the wrong.
I mean, come on. I asked you to call me cute nicknames again. But you’re too busy? How does that even make a lick of sense? It doesn’t. You’re not in the mood? What, you’re having such a great time there that you don’t feel the desire to let your girlfriend know that you love and care about her?
Because honestly, honey, it feels like you don’t. You don’t talk to me. You went to sleep in the  middle of an important discussion, where you had made me ball my eyes out after a perfectly good day.
You don’t put in any effort into our relationship anymore. I’m not even sure you want this anymore; I’m not even sure you want ME anymore.
Even my own mother feels this way, it’s not just me. She called you a douche and said that I deserve better- and that means something, because my mom really likes you. She thinks you need to grow up, but she likes you as a person.
I need you to be the boy that my mom loves again. I need you to be the boy that loves ME again. I need you to be the boy who cares about me, and wants to talk to me.
Because this is really the last straw. I need it to change. I love you, but you make my heart ache, and not in the good way. You used to make my heart ache in the good way, and if you would just show some effort, you could again.
I need you. Please, fix it. Fix it, or I have to leave. I can’t be sad all the time (well, I can’t be sad because of you on top of everything else.)

Okay guys, this is probably going to be my last relationship post for a while. I’m sorry the last few have been all about my relationship issues, but this blog IS for me to talk about my current issues, and right now, this has taken forefront in my brain.

Thank you for reading.



Sometimes I feel like I come down on him too hard. And I probably do. I don’t mean to make him upset, I hate it when he’s upset. But sometimes he makes ME upset, and I just want those issues solved.

I hate that I make him upset sometimes. He is my whole world, even though I’m not his. God, I’d do anything for that boy. I would follow him to the ends of the earth. I would rub his back and make him soup when he’s sick, and cuddle up with him when he’s sad. I would talk with him about every detail of his day and every thought he has in his amazing little head, no matter how silly or sad.

And I feel like all I do is bring him down. He’s going to do amazing things one day, and I hope so much that I will be there to see it. And I know I won’t set him back because of academics or anything, but I feel like I bring him down emotionally. Like he doesn’t want me there to see it.

And it makes me hate myself that much more. I love him, so, so much. So much that it hurts because I feel like he doesn’t feel the same.

I want him to see me go through college and become a forensic anthropologist or a writer or a teacher or a veterinarian. I want him to be there when I graduate and when I get my licenses and when I start a career. I want him there when I move out of my house, and when I get a car, and when I get coffee or go to sleep. I want him here all the time, with me. For the mundane things, for the little things, and for the big things, I just want him here.

I want him to want to read my blog. He doesn’t seem interested, and I’m hoping that will change. It would be weird for him to read all this stuff, and about him, but I’m hoping if he does it would benefit our relationship.

I want to make him smile. I’m trying right this second, but I don’t think anything I do will get a smile out of him. He’s fine, I just wanted to make him extra happy..

I hate myself. I’m so terrible. I can’t even make my boyfriend smile.


Human Urges

The human species is strange, for many a reason. But the most baffling one is how someone can want so badly to cause themselves physical pain.

I mean, think about it. Other species don’t do that. Lions don’t wake up one day and think “I’m going to purposely run into a tree with my head until I bleed. I love bleeding,” just as the rabbit doesn’t ponder whether or not it should be caught in the jaws of said lions.

But we, we are different. Not all of us, but a few. We wake up and think “I’d just love to take a razor to my skin right about now.” And I think that is bonkers. But it’s who I am.

My natural instinct is to do this to myself; whether it be punching myself, hitting my head into a wall, or taking sharp, shiny metal and trying to push it into my skin far enough to create caves, I want to do this.

When I am in any type of emotional stress, I want- no, I need- to hurt myself. I don’t know why, but I do. Crying makes me feel weak. Crying doesn’t help, not even for a moment.

At least cutting helps, if even for just a moment.

Sometimes, I’m not even stressed, I’m just numb. Sometimes I just see someone else’s scars and think that mine are pathetic, I can’t even make scars right. I can’t even cut enough, or deep enough.

And then I think about how messed up that is. How messed up I am.

Then I want to cut some more. It’s really an endless cycle in my head, and honestly, it gets old. I don’t know how to make it stop. Sometimes I fear the only way to make it stop is to be dead, and fear is a strong word. It’s more like nervousness, because I don’t really think I -or anyone else- would mind me being dead.

This post is so long, and so NOT formal, or normal. I am so sorry. Here I am apologizing to… who? Does anyone even read this? Oh god, I’ve reached a new level of pathetic.