Content Warning: This piece involves depression, self-harm, suicide and eating disorder. Please don’t read it if this will upset or trigger you.
I don’t know when I am.
Days have no meaning, time is simply the stream down which I drift. I count time by the scars on my arm, losing track as they fade and are overlaid by fresh marks.
I think that I don’t want to die, but I’m not trying to live either. I’ve all but given up. I want to go home to my mum where I’ll be taken care of, where I can feel safe, but she’s in another place and time and I can’t get there from here and now.
I know I have friends but they don’t need someone like me. They don’t need me, with all my problems and needs, dragging them down as I sink.
I’m a sad little drama queen, an attention whore, fishing for sympathy.
I’m broken and useless. My shoddy, wonky brain is steeped in self-pity. I don’t have real, serious problems: I’m just a lazy cow who wants everybody to do things for her so she can spend more time sat on her fat, selfish ass.
I should do everybody a favour, stop whining and put some actual effort in next time I take a knife to my wrist. Not just superficial scratches calculated to be shown off. “Look at me, I’m a nutter!” Isn’t that why I do it? For the reaction?
And if that doesn’t work I can stuff myself full of food and then go stick my finger down my throat to empty myself into the toilet bowl. Am I crazy enough for you yet? Will you help me now?
I sit here. I lie here, curled up in a ball, crying. Nobody hears, I don’t reach out because who would want to attend my pity party? No, I should be alone rather than spread the contagion of my misery.
I think I don’t want to die, but I wish I could. I’ve had enough of feeling this way and I don’t have any way out. If I can’t find the will to kill myself then I have no hope that my despair will end.