Friday, 19 September 2014

The Only Reason I Wouldn't

I don't want someone to come across these posts and immediately feel that I needed help or something. I don't even know if that's possible. But, if someone reads these and thinks I need help: Unless I ask for it, please don't. I won't need help. I've tried getting help for years and nothing seems to work for long enough.

The only reason I won't do something drastic is because of the people who care about me. I'm not stupid enough to believe that my family and friends do not care. Because I know full well that they do. I've seen that from experience.

So please, if anyone does read this, don't try and contact me or track me down. First of all, the idea of that creeps me out and I assure you I won't handle it in a good way. Secondly, I WILL NOT DO ANYTHING. Even if I did, I doubt you would care enough to actually help but I have seen cases where people - like me - post things like this and someone goes batshit crazy trying to track them down to make sure they haven't done something.

I can't make any promises, but at least know that the things I post on here are my way of venting my feelings out and therefore I will be 100% honest.


I want to crawl into a cave and stay there forever. To just rot and wither away like I was nothing. I can't see myself accomplishing anything in this life. 'This life' - I say that like I expect there to more after this. But I don't.

Death seems like a peaceful option - for me anyway. Closing my eyes, never having to open them ever again, experiencing an eternity of darkness. It must be just like sleeping. A never ending sleep. I want that. I need that.

I hate living. I look in the mirror and feel disgusted. I'm an awful creature, designed in a way to keep myself alive. To keep breathing. In and out and in and out. I feel my heart beating everywhere. I can feel the blood pumping through me. If my surroundings are quiet enough, I can sometimes hear it. And I cannot stand it.

A blade, a handful of pills, a noose, a bridge, a car, a thousand ways to go.

I don't just hate what I am, I hate who I am. I'm a self obsessed, nervous, ignorant, judgmental, complicated little idiot. I over think things and assume the worst in everyone and everything.

When I cut myself, it's a relief. Finally I can take all my feelings out on something. Me. The person who causes everything! It's me who thinks so lowly of myself, of other people. It's me who wants to die. It's me who couldn't care less about anything around her. I'm the one that should be punished. When I watch my skin drag across a blade, it feels so good. So so good. Watching the blood trickle down is numbing. The pain - the emotional one - leaves for few moments. Relief. I can breathe, even just for a few short seconds.

For however long it takes for the scars to heal, I have an easy torturing device. Throughout the day, a gently tug on my sleeve causes the scabs to hurt once more. It stings, sometimes thread gets stuck inside the scabs. More pain, more relief. Sitting on the bus or walking into class, I can do it anywhere at any time.

Thursday, 11 September 2014

Contemplating the meaning of... life?

Philosophy is a really difficult subject. I dislike feeling unsure about my existence when my existence feels downright dreadful. It's kind of weird to imagine that things around me might just be my imagination or the work of some demon.

Today we were introduced to a topic that basically contemplates the reason for living.

I don't believe we have a reason.

It's not that I'm being pessimistic, I just see the truth.

When I was younger, I believed in God. I was in a Catholic school, my family and most of friends were also Catholic. We attended Church weekly. I made my communion and followed the rules. But that was it. In my head, I'd never been given much of a reason to doubt God's existence, for my entire life I had been taught to believe in this all-mighty being. But when I turned eleven (when I first started becoming depressed) I began to doubt everything I had been told to believe. How could this omnipotent, benevolent and omniscient God exist? If he was all-loving, then why was he allowing an eleven year old girl to want to kill herself? Why was he letting her suffer through panic attacks? Why was he letting people bully her and call her a freak?

I'd spend hours and hours crying. Wondering what I did to make God punish me this way. I just didn't understand.

I don't really know exactly when I stopped believing in God. It was more of a gradual process. Of course, I was still forced to attend mass. I didn't want my parents to know the truth anyway - not at the time. But when I finally came to the conclusion that God could not exist, at least not in the way that I was taught to believe, I really gave up hope. I realised that I actually didn't have someone looking after me no matter what. It made me feel so insignificant (even more so than I already felt). I felt scared knowing that no one was watching me as I traveled to and from school, no one was making sure I didn't get run over whilst I crossed the road. My future was entirely in my hands, there wasn't someone who already had it mapped out and ready for me. It was up to me.

I don't know if that's where all of my anxiety stems from. But crossing the street is a difficult task for me, especially if I there are no pedestrian crossings available. Just leaving the house is challenging, opening the door, knowing an entire world of strangers and different possibilities is out there, scares me so much. What must strangers think when they walk past me? A thousand things rush through my mind. Do they think my clothes look stupid? Do I look really fat in this? What if my hair is a mess? What if I smell bad? What if they can see my trembling hands and my teary eyes?

I guess I can't pin the blame on my lack of faith. But it definitely contributes to how horrid I feel.

Wednesday, 10 September 2014

Things like this

Today was supposed to be my first lesson at college. I know it's my second year, so I should be used to all of this by now, but I'm really not. I'm so anxious, not just about being in the classroom, but also about travelling to college. Luckily, I'm going with a friend so my anxiety about being on a bus is going to be lessened, but that doesn't stop the sweat pumping from me every time I think about walking inside that classroom. I have no idea who my teacher will be, or who any of my classmates will be.

I've already chickened out. After writing a bit of this I emailed my tutor, asking him if it's possible to drop one of my subjects. Psychology. I was always interested in the mind, and still am, but when I'm sat in a classroom full of disinterested and moody teenagers (me being one of them) I feel rather uncomfortable. Hearing their opinions about mental health issues, such as someone with anxiety being a 'pussy' or 'stupid' for being scared about things. Or a person who is depressed is just someone choosing to be unhappy. I mean... who the heck would choose to be unhappy? I would never choose to live my life wanting to die, not enjoying anything anymore and feeling downright hopeless and pointless. It made me feel sick to my stomach.
Last year, we watched a video where a man was having a panic attack, and the majority of the class laughed. Thank God the room was dark because I was able to mask the rush of fear I had overcoming me. I covered my mouth and repeated numbers in my head as I copied the breathing exercises I'd been taught. Not even the person beside me seemed to notice the tears running down my face.
It made me feel so hopeless. If the people that are my age, who are going through the exact same things as I am, can't even understand or relate to my problems - problems that affect every single aspect of my life - then what hope do I have?

I don't want to sit here feeling sorry for myself. But sometimes, I can't help it. Why me? Why do I have to go through this feeling every day? I can't even open the door without feeling a lump rise in my throat.

I just don't want to carry on like this.

Saturday, 6 September 2014

When it started

I was eleven when it had all started. I guess it was triggered by the fact that I had started a new school. Finishing primary and going onto a secondary school wasn't something that I had particularly worried about. Looking back, I realise it was probably because I had no idea what to expect.

I remember everything like it was just last week (it was actually over six years ago). Whilst lining up and waiting for my name to be called so that I could join my form class, I looked around at everyone. We were all in the same boat. It just didn't feel that way. I knew about five girls that had actually gone to my primary school, though I was friends with none of them. (That's kind of a lie, I had been friends with one of them but we weren't exactly on speaking terms at this point, and another was the kind of psycho friend that I had no choice in knowing... but that's two other stories that I don't particularly want to tell).

My stomach was in knots. My mind raced when I heard my name being called and I went to line up with thirty other girls who I would be spending the next five years with. The rest of the day was spent getting to know each other, playing games and finding out our timetables. But I couldn't relax. The entire day my heart was beating like mad, and my throat felt like it was closing up.

That feeling hasn't ever gone away. Even right now, as I'm writing this, I feel an overwhelming urge to slam the backspace button and delete everything I've just wrote. But I can't do that to myself. I need to have this out there. Just so I can feel the tiniest bit of relief. Plus, maybe this can help someone else.

First Post

First off, I don't really know what I'm doing right now. I decided to make a blog where I can just vent about how I feel. I guess if anyone else reads this - which I highly doubt - it will be helpful if they or anyone they know suffers from anxiety (and/or depression) because that's mainly what I'll be talking about.

So yeah. Here goes.