*Please note that this has been written by a deeply disturbed woman and shouldn't be read by those who aren't willing to peek into a very sick mind. I wrote it because I am narcissistic and am exploiting my very core. I especially hope that it might give you some insight into the clouded minds of those you know or have known who suffer(ed) from mental illness. Read it at your own risk. I am prepared to loose friends/respect/your trust because of this.
I write approximately five posts for every one that I publish. The ones that stay privately tucked away in a sad folder are too alarming, and I'm scared of your judgement. Since I decided years ago that I would be a specimen for your edification by exploiting my sexual and emotional culmination, welcome into my torment.
Comment all you like, and know that although I appreciate your comments trying to help me stay positive or at least objective- I know all about the ways I could "help myself". I have been manically depressed for decades. No amount of prescriptions, therapy (of any kind), love, or physical health make it go away. I've been fighting it for years but it lives and breathes inside of me and to kill it would mean the end of me. That's what I've always really wanted anyway. I've been writing since I knew how, and to examine my journals would show you how long I have wanted to not be alive (and how much heartache boys have caused me). My friends and family say that when I'm sick I can't remember what it feels like to be well. My mother says I've had years of happiness. Maybe so, but it's all led to this. This living nightmare. Waking up and resenting the first thing to be done- opening my eyes and having to move. Regretting every decision I've made in my life. Hating my writing but doing it anyway for the same reason I smoke and eat shit and fuck gross creeps. Despising all of my doctors who try and fail. Feeling sorry for those who love me, knowing that they've bet on a losing horse. It makes me question their intelligence. I tricked them. I'm so charming when I want to be. I made them love me and they fell for my act. I say that I love them too but how could I? One of my favorite cliches is that you can't love anyone unless you love yourself. I can love myself and I have, but it's fleeting so there you have it. I never want to publish writings that make me seem completely insane because I'm afraid that people/men will be afraid to get close to me. No one should anyhow, so I'm now doing myself this favor by letting you see the real me. Go ahead and say it's the disease. Make the distinction between the two so I as a person don't have to take responsibility for anything shitty or crazy that I do. That's how I live & that's how those close to me can survive all of my bullshit they have to put up with. "The disease" has followed me like a shadow, like a ghost my whole life. Even in my best days I know it's there, waiting to strike me down at the first sign of weakness. The older I get, the more powerful it becomes. I try to hold on to the adage that everything is temporary. Guess what? My moments of sanity are included here, though they usually don't fit in many other places.
I never felt unloved, I do not feel alone and I am not scared. I wasn't bullied and I am acutely aware of all the amazing things that I am capable of. My friends are amazing and birds of a feather flock together. None of this matters.
You want to know why people kill themselves? Because they don't want to be alive. It's not necessarily wanting to be dead, it's not wanting to live. It's not to punish those around them unless on a holy mission. If you want to live in this world then you are strong and should be proud of that. If I had cancer instead of this and nothing worked to cure me, would you begrudge my willingness to leave this earth? If you believe in putting people out of their misery why is it so bad that I should want to be put out of mine? It has nothing to do with you, it has only to do with my life. I'm not living anyway, do you understand?
If you could look into my eyes you would see that I'm not living anyway.
They've decided to come and take me away again. I have to let them because ultimately they decide what's best for me. I could kill myself before they get here but my friends won't leave me alone and frankly I don't have the fucking energy to kill myself today, anyway. I'm too busy laying in my bed, staring at the palm trees in the wind and smoking. This isn't a cry for help. Something in me must love punishing myself because I'm good at it & am relentless. They're making me leave my home and taking me away. I'll probably (especially if they read THIS) have to go back to the hospital. They will give me a new cocktail of drugs again- though they are running out of pills to try. They will encourage ECT again. I'll just do what they say. They've all given too much & I owe it to them. I resent it but it's all I can do. Staying alive is the best way I know how to make myself feel terrible and everyone else happy so let's keep this up. I'll keep doing it again and again and again and I'll never REALLY get better but the moments of goodness will be enough to encourage the people that love me. I'll feel good then too. I will also know that lurking very close behind is the monster of what and who I really am. I don't want anybody to be sad. If I could take on all the sadness I would because I know how, and no one else should. I am an open wound and I'll take your salt and lemon juice and I'll suck on it like I'm drinking tequila. I'll never heal and turn into a resilient scar with a great story. I'll just keep tearing open, becoming more & more infected and difficult to look at.
ps. just because i fucked you doesn't mean you are a gross creep. don't forget how many dudes i've boned.