Come Up For Air: And Now I'm Finding My Truth
Sometimes it just hits you, you know?
Things come out of nowhere when you least expect them to;
Things come out of nowhere when you least expect them to;
Or you put all your faith in an illusion because it's so much easier than facing reality?
Or you choose to ignore things because you know you're not strong enough to handle them.
Or you choose to ignore things because you know you're not strong enough to handle them.
Of course, you could just think that you're not strong enough to handle them, but you'll never think about things that way; its difficult for one to admit that it's all in their head.
You're well aware of what is going to happen around you, but for a moment,
you just want to breathe without the hot, ragged breath of reality breathing down
your neck.
You're well aware of what is going to happen around you, but for a moment,
you just want to breathe without the hot, ragged breath of reality breathing down
your neck.
I constantly feel like it's too late.
It's too late for me to heal.
It's too late for me to heal.
Too late for me to become what I want to become.
Too late for me to experience all the things that I want to.
I'm filled with such a deep and aching longing for all of these things
and a part of me wonders if I'm longing for something that's even real at all.
I'm left in a perpetual state of worry, wondering when the glass around me will
shatter and I'll have to step out into a world that I really don't want to be part of.
It's a constant struggle to define you with your thoughts consuming you, telling you
one thing, friends one thing, society another.
Most days I'm left with a vague concept of who I am, not even a half of an idea.
I'm constantly walking on shards of glass, wondering when I'll be gashed open next.
A part of me wishes I'll bleed to death.
Things are progressing and changing faster than I ever imagined possible. Actually, I knew things could move and alter in these ways, but I never imagined it for myself. I wanted to shelter myself from the winds of change, never wanting to acknowledge that one day the winds would sweep me off my feet and into another field of existence.I honestly can't believe that I'm in this situation. Sometimes I step back and think, 'why the fuck is this happening to me?' I was able to step back and examine my reality without the hovering of others and I truly didn't like where I was or where I was going. Honestly, I still don't. I feel like every time that I start to get a little ways ahead, that I'm on a good path, things are looking up, life fucking cockblocks me. Does anyone else get this feeling? I feel so consumed by everything, that I'm drowning and all my energy is used to keep my head above water.
Each day I wave to wake up and battle the demons that rage inside my skull and the abuse from those around me; most days I manage to do so with a fake smile plastered onto my face, my feelings of rage, betrayal and self-hatred boiling beneath the plaster. The past few months I've been confronted by a living version of myself that's allowed me to see some of the worst traits that are housed in me. I see the version of me that so many people see. It explains so much more than I ever could have done on my own. Maybe by seeing these things, confronting these things as I have, I'll manage to dwell in an existence that's only marginally unhappy. I'm a realist. You can't put all your faith in the notion everything will work out just because of how badly you want something. Time and time again you'll be hit in the face with the reality of the situation until your eyesocket shatters and you won't be able to ignore it anymore. Well, last night I got my eyesocket shattered and I'm taking a step back. I've seen enough of my ugliness breathing before me and I need to just walk away. I'd love to be able to say I regret it, but I don't. Nor can I say that I'm honestly surprised. The signs were there, I just didn't want them to be true.
It's time I allowed myself to stop being stripped of the little worth I have and be irrevokably scared. It's time to bandage these open sores and throw away your picture. I'm not saddened that what was beautiful lays decorated in my hands; I'm saddened that you couldn't see what was real. You allowed your selfishness, ego and weakness to blind you to the thing you wanted all along. I can no longer idly sit by while you give away pieces to yourself to false idols and slobbering wolves who truly have no care for you. For the longest time, I thought that it was without you I'm nothing, but I'm beginning to think that it's you, who without me, is nothing. I'm sorry, this is goodbye.
....
I feel myself slipping back into familiar territory. The depression is once again beginning to settle in the spaces between my bones. Two weeks ago I was vibrant, happy, out and about, enjoying what life had to offer. I felt it slipping a day or two after Valentine’s Day, but I didn’t think much of it. I figured it was just the thrill of travel wearing off and I would have to settle back into my regular work and existence.
I’m not taking care of myself. I’m not doing what I need to do, what I should do. Not wanting to eat. Waiting almost all day to try and eat then eat all the wrong things if I’m in an extremely low mood. Binging, purging. Panic overwhelming me. Worries about weight and rejection and being gross. Wanting to just sob and hide. I’m backtracking on all the progress I was starting to make this time last month. I started getting into a healthy routine. Balancing diet with my exercise. I was getting out a bit more, socialising when I was away. I felt a joy that I’d not felt in so long-a natural joy, not one chemically induced. I've slipped up 4 times since being home after a month of being completely clean, no Joneses, nothing at all. I'm not built to handle this. The stress is spreading through me like one of the most aggressive forms of cancer. I needed to destress. It felt as if my veins were going to rupture if I didn't release the valve. It's no excuse for my failure, but the reason.
I’m consumed with thoughts of emptiness & sadness. I’m once again locking up parts of me in boxes and stuffing them on shelves. I'm not wanting to accept everything that's going wrong. I fear that if I do, I will shatter and even the world's best puzzle master won't be able to put me back together again. The familiar thoughts of ‘I don’t want to wake up in the morning’ creep into the foreground of my mind as I curl up every night. As I close my eyes, I'm thankful that the innocence of sleep is here to briefly take me away. I'm thankful when the nights are dreamless, but lately, vivid nightmares have begun to eat holes in my white matter. There is no reason to keep digesting or converting oxygen into carbon dioxide. They're all just time-consuming chores that serve as distractions.
I’ve got my workbook to help me with anxiety and depression, but it’s currently keeping a part of my bookshelf level. I can’t find the drive to fix the shelf let alone open the book and try to understand the words. Sometimes, I can sit and stare at a page for hours, reading the words over and over, but not understand a single thing. The book has never helped in the past, so why should it help now? It's helped me to confront my reality, help me to look behind the curtain, but has done nothing to change it. It's my utter failure or my love for self-destruction that keeps me stuck in this swamp.
I feel like there’s nothing worth doing. Or that everything I do is completely worthless. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. I don’t want to get up in the mornings. I know I’m falling apart I know that things aren’t great, but I just can’t hold any sort of care of focus. I can’t get the thoughts out, the stress works as a sort of dam, keeping all of the chaos inside of me until it begins to leak out of me in the form of blood. I was clean from self-harm since New Years and I’ve slipped up, as I always have the past just about 16 years. It goes in this sort of vicious cycle. I look at the angry, red and almost blackish wounds I've inflicted upon myself once again and my only thought is, "you should have gone deeper." I don't see this as a relapse, but as a failure to properly give myself what I deserve; give myself the punishment I deserve. The failure to release all the toxins in my blood that are eating away at me.
It’s been 3 days since my last shower and a proper meal without any sort of puking or worry. Clutter is piling up in the corners of the room. Post goes unopened on the desk and mugs upon mugs are filling up the laundry basket. Drawings and my current manuscript (that no one actually gives a fuck about) are strewn about the desk. I have no motivation to finish any of the artwork or the book. The pages aren't lonely, there are's wrappers for chocolate covered nuts closing in on them. The bin is almost overflowing the all kinds of rubbish, sort of like how I feel when I wear skinny jeans after something more than a salad. I feel like I'm on the verge of a complete breakdown. Everything is just going to get worse.
And once I start feeling better, if I start feeling better, I’ll get on to finishing the rest of the travel blogs. I’ve got the um, Oslo to Bergen train journey to do and then um..the three days I spent in Bergen. 4 more to go and then those are finished. I don’t know how much I’ll actually get done in any sort of capacity with all that I have going on now. I suppose a St Patrick’s Day Delectables with Dan would be in order. Don’t hold your breath on those, but it appears that I’m holding mine. I always seem to be, either literally or metaphorically. I’m a fucking mess, don’t loot my corpse just yet.
I'm left in a perpetual state of worry, wondering when the glass around me will
shatter and I'll have to step out into a world that I really don't want to be part of.
It's a constant struggle to define you with your thoughts consuming you, telling you
one thing, friends one thing, society another.
Most days I'm left with a vague concept of who I am, not even a half of an idea.
I'm constantly walking on shards of glass, wondering when I'll be gashed open next.
A part of me wishes I'll bleed to death.
Things are progressing and changing faster than I ever imagined possible. Actually, I knew things could move and alter in these ways, but I never imagined it for myself. I wanted to shelter myself from the winds of change, never wanting to acknowledge that one day the winds would sweep me off my feet and into another field of existence.I honestly can't believe that I'm in this situation. Sometimes I step back and think, 'why the fuck is this happening to me?' I was able to step back and examine my reality without the hovering of others and I truly didn't like where I was or where I was going. Honestly, I still don't. I feel like every time that I start to get a little ways ahead, that I'm on a good path, things are looking up, life fucking cockblocks me. Does anyone else get this feeling? I feel so consumed by everything, that I'm drowning and all my energy is used to keep my head above water.
Each day I wave to wake up and battle the demons that rage inside my skull and the abuse from those around me; most days I manage to do so with a fake smile plastered onto my face, my feelings of rage, betrayal and self-hatred boiling beneath the plaster. The past few months I've been confronted by a living version of myself that's allowed me to see some of the worst traits that are housed in me. I see the version of me that so many people see. It explains so much more than I ever could have done on my own. Maybe by seeing these things, confronting these things as I have, I'll manage to dwell in an existence that's only marginally unhappy. I'm a realist. You can't put all your faith in the notion everything will work out just because of how badly you want something. Time and time again you'll be hit in the face with the reality of the situation until your eyesocket shatters and you won't be able to ignore it anymore. Well, last night I got my eyesocket shattered and I'm taking a step back. I've seen enough of my ugliness breathing before me and I need to just walk away. I'd love to be able to say I regret it, but I don't. Nor can I say that I'm honestly surprised. The signs were there, I just didn't want them to be true.
It's time I allowed myself to stop being stripped of the little worth I have and be irrevokably scared. It's time to bandage these open sores and throw away your picture. I'm not saddened that what was beautiful lays decorated in my hands; I'm saddened that you couldn't see what was real. You allowed your selfishness, ego and weakness to blind you to the thing you wanted all along. I can no longer idly sit by while you give away pieces to yourself to false idols and slobbering wolves who truly have no care for you. For the longest time, I thought that it was without you I'm nothing, but I'm beginning to think that it's you, who without me, is nothing. I'm sorry, this is goodbye.
....
I feel myself slipping back into familiar territory. The depression is once again beginning to settle in the spaces between my bones. Two weeks ago I was vibrant, happy, out and about, enjoying what life had to offer. I felt it slipping a day or two after Valentine’s Day, but I didn’t think much of it. I figured it was just the thrill of travel wearing off and I would have to settle back into my regular work and existence.
I’m not taking care of myself. I’m not doing what I need to do, what I should do. Not wanting to eat. Waiting almost all day to try and eat then eat all the wrong things if I’m in an extremely low mood. Binging, purging. Panic overwhelming me. Worries about weight and rejection and being gross. Wanting to just sob and hide. I’m backtracking on all the progress I was starting to make this time last month. I started getting into a healthy routine. Balancing diet with my exercise. I was getting out a bit more, socialising when I was away. I felt a joy that I’d not felt in so long-a natural joy, not one chemically induced. I've slipped up 4 times since being home after a month of being completely clean, no Joneses, nothing at all. I'm not built to handle this. The stress is spreading through me like one of the most aggressive forms of cancer. I needed to destress. It felt as if my veins were going to rupture if I didn't release the valve. It's no excuse for my failure, but the reason.
I’m consumed with thoughts of emptiness & sadness. I’m once again locking up parts of me in boxes and stuffing them on shelves. I'm not wanting to accept everything that's going wrong. I fear that if I do, I will shatter and even the world's best puzzle master won't be able to put me back together again. The familiar thoughts of ‘I don’t want to wake up in the morning’ creep into the foreground of my mind as I curl up every night. As I close my eyes, I'm thankful that the innocence of sleep is here to briefly take me away. I'm thankful when the nights are dreamless, but lately, vivid nightmares have begun to eat holes in my white matter. There is no reason to keep digesting or converting oxygen into carbon dioxide. They're all just time-consuming chores that serve as distractions.
I’ve got my workbook to help me with anxiety and depression, but it’s currently keeping a part of my bookshelf level. I can’t find the drive to fix the shelf let alone open the book and try to understand the words. Sometimes, I can sit and stare at a page for hours, reading the words over and over, but not understand a single thing. The book has never helped in the past, so why should it help now? It's helped me to confront my reality, help me to look behind the curtain, but has done nothing to change it. It's my utter failure or my love for self-destruction that keeps me stuck in this swamp.
I feel like there’s nothing worth doing. Or that everything I do is completely worthless. I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. I don’t want to get up in the mornings. I know I’m falling apart I know that things aren’t great, but I just can’t hold any sort of care of focus. I can’t get the thoughts out, the stress works as a sort of dam, keeping all of the chaos inside of me until it begins to leak out of me in the form of blood. I was clean from self-harm since New Years and I’ve slipped up, as I always have the past just about 16 years. It goes in this sort of vicious cycle. I look at the angry, red and almost blackish wounds I've inflicted upon myself once again and my only thought is, "you should have gone deeper." I don't see this as a relapse, but as a failure to properly give myself what I deserve; give myself the punishment I deserve. The failure to release all the toxins in my blood that are eating away at me.
It’s been 3 days since my last shower and a proper meal without any sort of puking or worry. Clutter is piling up in the corners of the room. Post goes unopened on the desk and mugs upon mugs are filling up the laundry basket. Drawings and my current manuscript (that no one actually gives a fuck about) are strewn about the desk. I have no motivation to finish any of the artwork or the book. The pages aren't lonely, there are's wrappers for chocolate covered nuts closing in on them. The bin is almost overflowing the all kinds of rubbish, sort of like how I feel when I wear skinny jeans after something more than a salad. I feel like I'm on the verge of a complete breakdown. Everything is just going to get worse.
And once I start feeling better, if I start feeling better, I’ll get on to finishing the rest of the travel blogs. I’ve got the um, Oslo to Bergen train journey to do and then um..the three days I spent in Bergen. 4 more to go and then those are finished. I don’t know how much I’ll actually get done in any sort of capacity with all that I have going on now. I suppose a St Patrick’s Day Delectables with Dan would be in order. Don’t hold your breath on those, but it appears that I’m holding mine. I always seem to be, either literally or metaphorically. I’m a fucking mess, don’t loot my corpse just yet.
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