A Very Suicidal Christmas 🎄

I've lived like this for so long that I can't remember a time when I wasn't suicidal. I've shared that I experience two different types of suicidal thoughts; active and still. The depths of my despair have driven me to violent acts of self-harm. I've abused myself in so many ways, yet it feels like it's not enough, like I haven't done enough to hurt myself. A part of me thinks it's because I am a horrible person and the other part is ashamed of my depression. I talk about it freely enough in the cyber world, but many of the people in my daily life don't actually know. My mother ignores it; tells me to get over myself and tells me it's complete bullshit. My siblings do the same thing. How am I supposed to feel like anyone cares about me, or will help me with this illness when they all ignore it or when they do acknowledge it, they tell me it's made up, that I'm seeking attention or some sort of validation. Who the fuck would want to fake this? Who would cut themselves up, make themselves vomit, take pills until they can't feel anything and hope they never wake up if the pain wasn't real? They don't know the extent of my suffering, not because I hide it, but because they ignore it. I know I can't talk to them about this because, at the end of the day, they don't care. It's something I like to call "care on my own terms", meaning they only care when it can suit them or their needs. 

I swallow the pills and once they hit me, I step out of my skin. It's so nice. Everything that haunts me suddenly takes a backseat. I don't remember how many pills I've taken. I think I wrote it down somewhere. I can't be sure. I've consumed so much marijuana that the room is spinning. I really went hard on the edibles. I want the thoughts, I want the feelings out of me. I can't handle this existence anymore. It's been coming for a long time. I'm dead in almost every place inside. Maybe I crave death or maybe I crave liberation. But in the end, aren't they the same?
I look at my mangled wrist and arm. Ink obscures some of the scars, but I can still feel them. I run my fingers over the hills and valleys that I created on the surface of my skin. So many different mediums. Razors, broken glass, scissors, knives, broken porcelain, even broken CDs. Anything I could get my hands on. The scar tissue is thick and an off pink colour that doesn't quite match my skin tone. The deep cavern in my wrist, hiding more of my secrets than I ever realised. People see the wrist and assume it was some kind of burn or other horrid accident; they never stop to consider it's something that I did to myself. Of course, I understood what I was doing. Full consent of the will. A full accepting of what could result in me doing this.
It's been a while since I've taken the blade to my skin. I was doing so well. Only a few cuts over the past few months. Backsliding a few over a 17-year habit isn't really a bad thing, is it? I mean, yeah in a clinical setting it is, but in the realm of everyday life, it's not all that bad. I've really been trying despite what it looks like. I think about hurting myself whenever I feel immense pressure. It's always been my release valve. I've been working hard over the past few years to just let it out of me by deep breathing or punching the shit out of something to work out my frustrations. It's a hatred of others and myself. Sometimes its a combination of the two and I can't quite work out why.
I sink the fresh razor into my wrist. Despite being high, I feel the familiar sensation wash over me. I've never craved anything more. (Well perhaps Puffin, but.that's something else.) Neat little lines start to decorate the scar tissue, all the troubles, anxiety, sorrow and rage flowing out of me. Jesus, it really is flowing. All over my jimjams, all over the sheets, into the mattress. I can't think about anything other than the beauty of the red colour that I've created. All I want to is sleep. I don't even care if I wake up or not. I just want the rain to wash away the pain. 

Daybreak stretches out over me. My limbs feel heavy. I physically feel the depression. I've been laying down for the last few weeks for most of the afternoons when I get home and my back is starting to hurt. I don't see how people stay in bed all the time without being in this pain. I like to be up and moving around; like a tree's limbs in a summer breeze. Breathing feels like a chore, but I roll onto my back, looking at the bloodstains on the ceiling. Sometimes no matter what you do you can't hide the past by scrubbing it clean. I think of life dripping from the ceiling. My life dripping from the ceiling. Nirvana's Polly starts playing in my head. I want to sink into the melody of the song and let everything waste away.
The sheets beneath me are hard and crusty; the smell of blood is all around me. The thick red stains clash with the black of the sheets. I can't believe its such a vibrant red. It's stained my jimjam bottoms too. They're a brownish, red and are hard. My wrist has a dull ache to it, but nothing that reflects the horrific wounds I've inflicted in myself once again. It's been a while since I lost control like this. Thank Christ I don't have to go to work today. I have to go tomorrow. I don't know if I'll be able to pull myself together. If I do, it will be a miracle. And I'll have to hide the cuts. I can't wear long sleeves I'll get too hot...Maybe no one will notice. 

I roll over just wanting the torment in my head to end. The voices grow louder. The smell of the dishes on the floor is driving me insane. I need to find the strength to get up. What does anything matter? I don't want to do anything. I don't even want to exist, let alone to the washing up. I don't want a funeral or any sort of remembrance. No one will show up anyway. If I did want one, it would just be one more opportunity for everyone to make fun of me. In the end, you pay for your own humiliation! I don't know how much more I can fucking take. My entire existence I've paid for my humiliation. I can't do it again.
I think of my grandparent's funerals and start screaming. I don't want it. I don't want it. The chronic emptiness. The memory of their sadness in death. They were-I can't. I can't do that. I actually felt sad for them; not because they died, it was best they did so they didn't suffer, but the aftermath. I still can't make sense of it. I know they were older and most of their friends had died, but it was such a fucking shame. They tried so hard and for what? I try so hard and I'm facing the same result. I can't take it anymore. Fuck Christmas. Fuck funerals. Fuck everything.
I curl up into a ball on my side wanting nothing more than to get high. I don't want to feel any of this. I don't want to feel anything. I don't want to think about any of this. I don't want to think at all. I just want to be numb, almost brain dead, spun out in front of the telly while waves of mindless noise distract me from the horror in my head.