Livin' On A Thin Line Pt 2

I haven't self-harmed in months. Not since September or October of 2021. Not that the urge isn't there. This deep feeling that I will never be enough is welling up inside me, almost to the point where I'm ready to burst into tears every day. But I'm not cutting. I'm not taking out that beautiful silver girl and dragging her across my skin, opening my deformed wrist and worsening an already hideous situation. People try not to took at it...The giant gash and hunk of flesh missing from my wrist. Maybe if I'd gotten stitches...or if I just managed to bleed out. I still have the blood stain on the wall. I know it's disgusting, but I just can't part with it. Seeing it makes it real. It never lets me forget...forget what I've done and what I'm capeable of. Blood. So beautiful, light or dark, depending on the light. Poisonous or Passionate. It's funny how time changes things, destorts things. I look back through catologues of images, all neatly recorded and organised. The ink in my skin has aged with the 10 years since the photos were taken. My wrist that was once normal in appearence how misses a hunk out of it and the surrounding tissue is pink from layers of scarring. I've told my sorrows and expressed my inner torment through the blade for so long. The number of tattoos has increased, each as a marker of time and a marker of memory. My words, thoughts, actions and deeds all expressed on my skin in a collection of symbols, pictures and words. Everything hidden in plain sight. The more I cover my body, the more I hide, but in the same hand, the more I express myself. There is so much going on for me right now, that it's no wonder that I still have trouble sleeping. Every morning I find myself waking around 2-3 in the morning and laying there for a good 30 minutes trying to sleep. If I don't find sleep visiting again any time again soon, I get up and start working on my new merchandise line. It's a lot more work than I thought it was going to be. I've had merch before but a lot of it was smaller scale, this is a larger taking on. I've been trying to work on all of this alone. Drawing, researching, vendors, production companies. But it's not just that. The bullshit with my brother has reached a ciritical level. Hes destroyed things in my home. I came home from work the other day to find he'd smashed the oven for no reason other than the new one couldn't be hooked up right away, now I have nothing. Constantly being shit on by life is taking its toll on me. Before that hed smashed in a door because he had a temper tantrum. He's thrown out food because he doesn't like it. In a house I fucking pay for while his fat ass sits, unemployed. He's always got money for weed and my mother fuels his delusons that he's something special, that the world owes him a fucking favour. It doesn't. He's always been a lazy, obnoxious piece of shit, encouraged by her that he's something special, that he's deserving of everything. He doesn't. What he deserves is his fucking face smashed in with a cast iron frying pan. He's stolen from me and she glosses it over, blackmails me over rides to plaes I need to go or promises to make a scene where I work if I do anything that hurts her precious son. She needs to pop her tit out of his mouth and stop babying him. I'm at my wits end with him and everything with them. I wish they both would die, get out of my life forever. I don't feel guilty wishing they were dead or that they would die horrific deaths, but knowing my luck, it's probably backfiring on me. I hate them both. So much. The rage that boils beneath my skin drives me, but also threatens me. Threatens to by my undoing. I feel my blood pressure skyright whenever I see his ugly face. He's just like his father and her failure to control her son, to decipline him has become the worlds problem. The next incident, the police will be called and he will be escorted. I don't care what has to happen. I shouldn't have to work 40 plus hours a week at one job, use my free time to work on building this new business only to be forced to deal with his yelling and screaming. The disruption. It sets my teeth on edge. I'm at breaking point. There is so much more to what happened in the last two weeks with him, but that's for another time. It's too much to try and get out of me right now. It aches and throbs deep within me. A constant sense of aggravation ontop of being sick. I'm doubting my abilities like never before. Lately that voice that's usually in the back of my mind is louder than ever. The only thing I can do to silence it is get high; but even sometimes that doesn't help. I can't get stoned at work, nor would I want to. Putting my job at risk means putting my home at risk and I don't know if I can handle being homeless again. It the 7th year anniversary since then. I found a picture of me on the streets of LA with nothing more than the shit I could carry in a few suitcases. Most nights now, I curl up and cry myself to sleep. And the worst part is, I don't think anyone would care if I told them. I've mentioned things here and there over the past few weeks and not one person has asked me if I'm okay or how I'm handling things. I know I come off as strong, but right now I feel so overwhelmed. I guess that's why I haven't been blogging lately; I've been putting everything into my drawings, into my new product lines to hopefully lift some of the burden that I'm under and the creative outlet there is wonderous. More than ever lately, I've been wondering what the point is. The point to everything. Why I get so upset, so stressed out over things that end when I die. Everything ends when I die. Nothing will change when I die. The world will not mourn my loss. It will be as if I never existed. I used to worry that I had no arch, that I was leaving no legacy, but it really doesn't matter. Everything that I've ever done or will ever do, is pointless.