D (displacency) wrote,

I might be crazy..

I want to write, and write, and just get this all out, but I can't. There are no words to describe the sorrow I feel. . Except that.. sorrow.

Maybe he's right, though. I shouldn't have even convinced myself that I could go through life being a sane person. I'm fucked up. There is something wrong, in my brain, that makes me hurt people. It's not a constant thing, either.. It just comes and goes. Someone says something relatively offensive to me, and I throw all of my ammo at them. I use the only thing I can, to hurt them - my words. I regret it, so deeply, afterwards. . but that doesn't stop me from doing it over and over. Rarely do people even fight back, anymore. Nobody questions it. I'm just a bitch.

I don't mean to act like this, and be like this. I hope you know that. It's like I turn into a completely different person. My eyes narrow, my heart begins to beat quicker, and I fire off my words at the intended target.


I'm sitting here, writing this, instead of what I had originally intended to do. The razorblade is sitting next to me. It has a slight glow reflecting off of it, from the light of the computer. It looks so appealing, but I don't know if I can allow myself to sink this low, again. I haven't done it in so long. I remember how it used to soothe me. I'd just turn over my arm, so the inside of it was showing - always the left arm. I'd clench my fist, and watch the veins sort of bulge out at me, then slowly go back into hiding.. Finally, I'd dig the blade into my skin, just a tiny bit, and begin to pull it smoothly across my skin. I'd lift it up, and watch a thin line of red appear. Then it began to sting, which was the best part. I think it's what helped me the most, is the pain. I liked it to burn, and hurt, until I was shaking, just slightly, from the agony. It felt as if all of the hurt, and the sadness, and the guilt, and the envy, all were bleeding out of me, with this single line of blood. So of course, I'd have to do it again, and again, until my skin began to itch, and I would scratch, drawing the blood out of their perfect little lines, spreading it all over my skin, and finally feeling the relief that comes along with this beautiful practice. .

Sometimes, people asked me, in the past, why I did it. I couldn't explain it.. I suppose it's just something that you can't explain to someone who views you as being "strange" for venting in this way. Some people turn to drugs, others to sex.. There are so many ways to deal with your emotions, I just happened to choose this one.


Perhaps I do have some rather serious mental issues, but doesn't everybody? I'm sick of being judged. I'm sick of people trying to change me, and make me act as if I am something I am not. I'll never be "normal". I'll never have a successful relationship, either, I've begun to think. Something inside of me, fucks up every single relationship I try to have. Even back in the day when I was with Arthur, I threw his ring into the trees. I was such a stupid girl. I could've been happy, perhaps. But I fucked it up, as usual.

I'm told I have low self esteem, which is highly possible, but honestly, I think I'd rather be insecure and cautious about the things around me, as opposed to being overconfident and careless.


I guess I don’t have anything else to write, right now.. Maybe later. Right now, I’m going to mourn over my losses.
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