Tag: sad

it pains me to say

i haven’t felt the least bit alive

that can’t be true now can it

every now and then i catch glimpses of myself

(the girl i used to be)

i can’t seem to laugh the way i used to 

a sharp twisting pain in my gut that stuns me every time

it leaves me gasping for air

(because it hurts)

and i can feel it spread, seeping from my stomach inside inside inside it’s staining me

i’m speechless but mostly just sorry

i must still be alive if i’m struggling to breathe

the struggle is so stupidly human

words i’ve been trying to say

tired of losing friends and losing sleep

tired of erasing all our memories

i want to blame you but it’s mostly me

hurting alone when i just want peace

but i’m in pieces, jesus, i’m on my knees

praying to god but i don’t believe – 

maybe salvation just isn’t for me

i use drugs so i can breathe. so i can sleep

it makes me weak

it’s just so easy

you know me, i like sweet dreams

i know it’s been like i’m stuck between

like i can’t really speak. like i can’t really reach

for words but i’m screaming underneath

all these tangled sheets

i feel so incomplete

writing poems i hope you see

but don’t confuse pain with poetry

god isn’t real and nothing really matters

I never believed that God, destiny, or whatever [insert higher power] existed. Because if everyone’s lives were already predetermined, nothing we do matters. And if something like that did exist, why is there still so much hurt and suffering in the world? 

I used to fall asleep with hate in my heart and blood on my wrists.  Did I deserve that when I was 14? 15? 16-17-1819202122? Maybe. I was the one hurting myself. But what about all the times others hurt me? Did I deserve all of that? Did I deserve to eat lunch alone in the middle school bathroom stall because I didn’t feel safe anywhere else? Did I deserve to have my safe place taken from me? When girls tried to climb the stalls to take pictures of me? Or crawled under the gaps between the stalls and floor? 

I thought I knew what being violated felt like. I got too familiar with feeling empty and broken. I was comfortable in my numbness, and I let the emptiness sit in my chest. It was easy to let boys girls bitches friends dad mom people take pieces of me because they were already broken.  

My rapist took a different piece of me the night he fucked me against my will. 

Did I deserve to be touched without my permission? To be choked and hit and beaten as if I was not 97 pounds and him, over 200? To have bruises in places that should not have been touched?

I did not know I could feel emptier than I already was. The only thing I truly felt was the hate I had for myself. I felt hate in my blood in every fucking heartbeat pumping hate running through my veins as if I weren’t already drowning with lungs full of liquid guilt, as if I needed more reasons to kill myself slit my wrists and bleed out all the hope hurt just to feel anything other than this. 

I learned that the world moves forward even if I don’t. Life goes on. Pain and suffering go on and on and on and on. 

It still hurts when I think about what he did to me because he was my friend because I trusted him because I didn’t deserve what happened or maybe I still blame myself for being weak stupid trusting naive stupid stupid stupid and these days I think about that night more and more frequently, not of my own volition though I am just so triggered because I am back in Bangkok again and it still hurts because he was my father and I loved him and I trusted him to protect me from people like my rapist and I didn’t expect I didn’t think how could I know at the age of 11 that he was the one I needed to be protected from? How could I know?

God can’t be real. Fate. Destiny. All of that cannot be real. So while the concept of a higher power comforts many and lets them believe that everything will be okay in the end, I choose not to cannot believe in it.

I cannot believe life is predetermined because I cannot accept that this – my life my soul my brokenness my loneliness and hurt and anger-pain-emptiness-numbness unworthiness hatred guilt – is how I am supposed to feel. Maybe for now, but not forever.

I’d rather be dead than feel this for the rest of my life.

I don’t want to hurt – like this – anymore. 

I don’t know how much more I can take.

I’m trying my best but it is getting harder and harder to breathe. I am trying to heal in the environment that hurt me. I don’t think it’s working I need help I’m so trapped get me out of here I can’t sleep I don’t feel safe here this isn’t home I don’t think I can do this anymore I’m fucking breaking I am hiding the truth in my art because I am scared of him still and if this is art then it’s all up to interpretation, isn’t it? I speak in metaphors and hide between the lines. If you can read between them you can’t because I can’t either I am just scared.

Maybe I should just pray about it.

losing my battles

drowning

I’m hurting again. The days are bleeding into one another and I am bleeding internally. I promised myself maybe four years ago now, that I wouldn’t make myself bleed anymore. Not externally, anyway. But there is so much pain in not letting go. In not cutting myself open and bleeding out the hurt and pain inside me.

I am so angry sometimes it scares me. I feel like punching a wall. But mostly I just want someone to punch me. Someone to hurt me so hard I forget what it’s like to be hurting on my own. People understand broken bones but they do not understand broken parts. They do not know what it’s like to be screaming all the time. They do not know what it is like to be woken up from visceral nightmares of hanging bodies and loose limbs in the forest. They do not know that when I wake up, I remember. I remember every single detail of my dream and they do not know that I was there. I know it isn’t real. It’s probably stupid and incredibly trivial. But when I wake up from a nightmare, it sticks with me. I sleep a lot more than I should because my nightmares make me tired.

I want to dream about something so incredibly mundane like waiting in line at an airport or buying mayonnaise at the grocery store. These dreams are getting too much for me to handle and they are spilling into my reality. I get scared walking through the streets. I think someone will stab me or shoot me. I’m scared of geocaching in the woods because, what if I find a hand? What if I find a body? I’m not ready for that. My dreams are a part of who I am. I don’t expose myself to violent movies or scary movies even though they’re my favorite kind to watch. I like feeling unsettled from a movie but I can no longer enjoy them because I don’t want to exacerbate my dreams.

I feel lost and out of control. I hate uncertainty and life is known to be full of them. I’m at a tumultuous time in my life where I can’t find the balance between my mental health, work, and school. I feel like a failure. A disappointment. Why is my bar set so high?

These days, I’m grateful to just be able to get out of bed. To brush my teeth and go outside. Normal things that normal people do. But they’re easy for them. It’s a battle every single day for me to even get up. I can’t find the motivation to do it. My bed is my kidnapper and I have Stockholm Syndrome. I love my bed but I hate it. It gives me comfort but it won’t let me leave. Why won’t it let me leave?

I’m supposed to be stronger, to be better, but I don’t know if it’s working. All the medication, all the therapy — is it even worth it? Am I stronger than I was before? Just because I was raped, found out that I was sexually abused as a child, had suicide become a part of my life? Am I stronger than I was before? Because that’s all that matters, right?

All my traumas are spilling out all at once and I don’t know what to do. Every single day is a struggle. Every single day is a battle. And most days, I am not winning.

saying nothing

My head is spinning. I have so many thoughts. So many dots that don’t quite connect. All I’ve ever wanted was a sense of clarity. Why is everything so muddled?

It’s been almost a year since the incident. Almost a year since I’ve posted on this blog. I think about writing, about posting nearly every day but I can never think of anything to say. So here I am, saying nothing.

I’ve had really really good days. Days so good I didn’t want to ruin them by writing thinking feeling all my thoughts turn into words. Does that make sense? I’ve also had some really shitty days. Those are the days I want to write the most. My fingers itch and mind longs to write to post and scream and shout and tell the world that I am not okay. But I also didn’t want to disappoint.

People are so happy for me when I am happy, I cannot bear to tell them that I still get sad sometimes. It’s all so disappointing.

So, I am writing today. It’s not a great day but it’s not a terrible one either. It’s like the weather here in Revere. Foggy. Misty. Cloudy but bright skies. Overcast. The smell after it rains (there was a thunderstorm last night, the lightning was crazy).

I can’t think too much about the words I’m spewing or I’ll get scared and delete it all. So here is me, saying nothing. But also everything. I’m going to stop writing and publish this before I lose my nerve. Thanks for reading.

4/10

The world feels distant. Muted. Like I’m floating in a dream that isn’t really my own. I’m in a one-person game without a goal.

I’m forcing myself to write this blog post. To salvage whatever is left in me that I can find. I’ve been dropping classes and missing group projects. I’m on new medication, upped-dosage medication and I still don’t feel completely like myself. I hope I’m not destined to feel this way forever.

Destiny. A strange word, is it not? I don’t understand it. I’m not sure I believe in it. Perhaps it is my way of coping with the world – blaming “destiny” for my problems and situations that I’m in. Because if destiny isn’t set and fate isn’t real, then what? All my problems are because of me, and I’m stuck here where I am, because. of. me.

I feel like a failure in more ways than one. I can’t write, and I can barely read. Depression has affected my daily cognitive functions, leaving me impaired and hopeless. I blame depression for most of my problems, but what if it is just me who is incapable of performing normally? What if I’m just lazy? I ask myself this question all the time. Why don’t I want to do things? Be normal? Go out with my friends? Why do I feel so small? Why do I feel like the world is crushing me slowly? Like I’m drowning in the middle of the ocean while there is a huge storm going on at the same time? Who will find me in the storm when I can’t even find myself?

I have never been more lost. Every time I relapse, I say that. I have never been more lost. It keeps getting worse and worse, I don’t know how much more of this I can take. I am a prisoner in my own mind.

broken-glass words

when you are frustrated irritated impatient

i am complacent

i close my eyes, and spiral down

watching the circles get bluer and bluer and finally turn black

sharp teeth in the dark grip me and i’m used to it

but it still hurts when i choke on my words

drowning coughing gurgling up mangled words

that i want to spit out but i’m scared

because they’re not real words

not real to you or in a way you can understand

you say: give me real words i don’t understand you i’m frustrated by you give me real words real words real words

but what you mean is: your words are not real and your feelings are not real and you. are. not. real. so stop pretending like you are.

so, i choke on my sliced-up words and i drown

i think it is you, who makes me feel like i am not enough

but it is me

i am swallowing my own broken-glass words

and then i wonder why i can’t use my voice

decrescendo

slow down

my eyes are blurry

lightyears behind

don’t touch the moonlight with your bare fingers

you’ll get hurt

i’ll do it for you – don’t worry – it doesn’t hurt me anymore

i’m used to it

stars no longer sear into my skin the way they used to

you’re supposed to protect me but

i think it’s you who needs protecting

the skies are so pretty but they hurt so much

i’ll make sure you get to see the clouds without pain

i won’t tell you how much it hurts

how much i let you hurt me

and you’ll see this too but you won’t understand

because these are all metaphors


naked truths

Hello. Sorry I haven’t posted in a while. Just not really sure what to say. I’ve been trying to figure out what to write and how to portray myself. Which, is strange, I know, because this is my own blog. I’m trying to be as transparent as possible; which, again, is for my own good. But I’m also afraid. How can I post online the things I’m too scared to admit out loud?

On this blog, I have introduced myself over and over again. Through my About Me page, various poems, articles — nothing seems to be enough. Why do I keep trying to define myself? I have so many answers but I crave more.

This post will be hard truths. Naked truths.

Thank you for reading.

  • I’ve started to bite my nails again because I’m anxious all the time.
  • It gives me something to do in the moment, but when I have a panic attack, I have nothing to cling on.
  • To clarify: I scratch myself sometimes or clench my fists really tight so my nails cut into my skin. The pain grounds me.
  • It’s not self-harm if I don’t bleed, right?
  • Describing anxiety is difficult.
  • I can’t breathe.
  • I feel trapped.
  • I’m tumbling down a neverending staircase.
  • It really fucking pisses me off when people pretend to understand or belittle what I’m feeling.
  • I wish I were prettier.
  • I feel invalidated.
  • I miss my dad.
  • Today, I had a panic attack in the bathroom but I didn’t tell anyone because they always respond with “I’m sorry,” and I can’t be fixed.
  • I wish my boyfriend liked Thai food. It’s the only part of Thai culture that still resonates with me. I don’t want to lose that.
  • I don’t want to feel anything anymore. Nothing nothing nothing.
  • Feelings: numbness, sadness, guilt, sleepy, tired, shaky, uncertain, unsteady, lonely, lost. Unsatisfied.
  • My therapist talks too much about herself.
  • I get urges to starve myself sometimes. So, if I’m weak, it will be because of a lack of food and not because I was up crying all night.
  • For someone who talks about dying a lot, I’m actually scared of death. Where do we go?
  • I don’t think that I will ever be enough.
  • I don’t know why I make my own standards so high. I know that people love me. I know that they think I’m enough. Why do I still feel this way?
  • I really want to take sleeping pills but I sort of overdosed and the doctor said I can’t anymore. Also, I’m on my way to liver failure.
  • I want to love myself but I don’t know how.

nina

I don’t think I’m a good sister.

I never have been. 

Sara turned 12 last November, and Nina is turning 17 in three days. Seven-teen. That’s crazy. My annoying baby sister. An adult. And I didn’t even get to see her change and grow into the woman that she is becoming.

I left home when I was 16. I thought I knew what I was doing. I really did. But it turns out, I didn’t. When I turned 17-18-19, I still thought I knew what I was doing or I knew that it was all going to make sense sometime soon. Now that I’m nearing 20, I realize that I don’t know anything at all. 

When I first left, I often looked back at my time in Bangkok as something that I could leave behind. As if Bangkok was a phase I was meant to come out of. I didn’t fit in with anyone anyway. Other than the small number of real friends that I had, I truly could not care less about anyone else. Even my family. Which sounds terrible, I know. But I didn’t really acknowledge anyone’s existence until I was 14 (probably). Not in like, a really bad way, I just didn’t care about anything and assumed that no one would understand me. You know, typical angsty teenager stuff (that lasted way longer than it was supposed to).

I was raised on Scholastic books, Geronimo Stilton, Judy Blume, and Powerpuff Girls. I didn’t understand any of the Thai slang or references, nor did I care to. Many of my friends were raised more “international” too but they were able to integrate into Thai culture just fine.

I don’t know why I assumed my sister would be like the rest of them when we were raised the same way.

I was mean to her. Really, really mean to her. I ignored her all the time, I’d run away from her, lie to her, and hurt her. My mom always said that we should love one another because, in the end, all we have is each other. I think that this statement was the only good advice that my mother has ever given me.

Nina and I would have our fun every now and then but we would always fight. Not the usual sibling kind, I don’t think. I absolutely hated my sister. I don’t know why. 

We’re really close now, because of all the family drama (and also because she’s mature and doesn’t want to steal my books), but mostly because we understand one another. I don’t think I really gave myself a chance to get to know her and see her as this amazing human being until sort of recently. 

Now, I fondly look back on my time in Bangkok. All of my cherished memories of Thailand are because of her. All those years spent perfecting the art of hot chocolate when it rained (3 tablespoons of sugar, 1 1/2 cup of milk), trying to get the microphone to work when Dad wanted us to sing. All those hours spent learning how to bike and getting skinned knees. I always cried. Nina never did.

She was always the strong one. She always took the blame for every single terrible thing I did. For everything Sara did. Mom always blamed her, even if she wasn’t part of the situation at all. That’s part of being the middle child, I guess. 

And that is why I am a bad sister. I should’ve said something. I should’ve stood up for her. I’m the big sister. I was supposed to protect her. I still am supposed to protect her. 

I was never on her side. But she was always on mine.

She always believed in me. It was her that inspired me to keep writing. She’s always loved my stories. All the terrible horror stories, cliche stories, sappy YA stories… She’s supported me through it all. She always told me she loved me. Always got sad when I didn’t say it back.

She was the one who held my hand the first time I saved up money to get a diagnosis at the psychiatric ward. As we were leaving the psych wing, she stopped me. She didn’t say anything. She pulled me close and buried her head against my shoulder. She had to bend down because she was taller than me.

We were both crying silently. It was in that moment, that I realized how special our bond was and how I have been taking her for granted my whole life.

She’s turning 17 in three days. And I’m sitting here, almost 9000 miles away, wondering if it is too late for me to give her the love she deserves.

nothing but glass

There’s a spot right under my left cheek that stings when I cry. For some reason, more tears come out of my left eye. Some people don’t know which of their eyes cry more.

Not that it’s useful knowledge, but it is useful to know which side to lay on so no one can see you crying. For instance, I’ll lay on my left side with my left hand tucked underneath the pillow and my right hand on top of the pillow. So, if I start crying, my tears will roll right into the pillow. 

Sometimes, I can feel a breakdown coming. You know, like how some people can tell it’s about to rain (how do they do that?) Anyway, those days that I do know, I won’t eat because crying always makes me want to throw up.

I’m fine. That’s what I’ve been telling myself. That’s what I’ve been telling everyone else. But I, in fact, am not fine. I’ve been pushing and pushing myself and I think I’m teetering over the edge. At this point, I’d welcome the fall with open arms. No more hurting.

I’ve never been suicidal. At least, not really. All I want to do is disappear. To stop hurting. When I say I want to give up, I don’t think I mean like, I want to kill myself. I mean. Maybe I would if I could. But I can’t. Why? Because I’m a coward. It’s that simple. I faint at the sight of blood. So we can cross off guns, knives, and like 12 more things, probably. My knees get shaky when an elevator goes up more than six levels. Womp, there goes that rooftop idea. (But I was never really considering that because, c’mon, think of the clean-up crew. God, what a terrible memory to have imprinted in your mind).

Honestly, I don’t think I care enough to actually go through with the aforementioned “acts.” I just don’t feel anything anymore. Fifty percent of the day I’m just tired and the other fifty, bored. I never feel anything in the moment anymore. My feelings are ugly, hairy spiders jammed into a small glass cage – just waiting waiting waiting for that teeny crack in the cage so that they can all come crawling out.

How do you tell someone you love that you want to die but you love them so much but you’re so sorry because they are so sweet and they love you so much but sometimes they just aren’t enough to keep you alive? How? 

I am cracking.

— sorry this is such a shitty post it’s just that I don’t care anymore

I’m not really in the mood for writing but I figured if I started, things would just get flowing. I had an exam today that I thought I was unprepared for but it turned out better than I thought, so that’s good. I still have a bunch of work piling up and I’m not so sure what to do. I want to take a break from school and from life but it seems like I’m always taking a break even though I don’t feel like I am. Joe says it helps to make to-do lists. He made me a pretty pink smoothie today. I’ve been on my new medication for about a week now and I do think it’s helping but I still need more time to adjust. As I was studying yesterday, I realized that, in the grand scheme of things, this moment is very small and I probably won’t even remember it. And I should focus on the important things that make me happy. Sometimes I get sidetracked. Life just gets in the way. I took two naps today and I’m still tired. Every morning when I wake up, the only thing that gets me through the day is the thought of coming back home to sleep. I want to feel inspired again but I don’t know how. At least that’s a step towards somewhere, right? I need affirmation that everything is going to be okay because I don’t know if it is. I’ve lost a lot of myself and I don’t know how to get her back. I just don’t know anything anymore.

31 October​​ 2018

I don’t feel so bad today. I think.

I woke up at 9:30 a.m. and decided not to go to my bio lecture because I think that it is a waste of my time. I hate biology.

I ate cheerios and immediately felt guilty afterward.

I submitted my essay to the very nice professor who granted me an extension (I told him about my crippling depression). Which made me realize that I should probably be asking for more help.

I told Her Campus about my crippling depression too (ironic because I’m working on the mental health campaign). So they’re giving me time off.

I finally have an appointment tomorrow with BU’s student health services so I guess I’ll finally have help (??).

I keep having nightmares that leave me panic-stricken in the middle of the night. I always feel guilty for waking Joe up but it is so hard for me to fall back asleep. His breathing helps steady mine.

I can’t remember the last time I called my dad and I always feel guilty thinking about it. I can’t call him yet – he’ll ask me how things are and I can never lie to him. But I can’t tell him how much I’m struggling because I need to prove to him that I can be an independent adult.

I have an article I’m supposed to write for my journalism class that’s due in a couple of days. I like this class a lot. And my professor is incredibly inspiring. But I’m scared of all the deadlines I will miss because of my mental health. I haven’t missed any yet because I’m really pushing myself.

This post sucks but it made me feel a little bit better so I guess that’s okay. I still feel incredibly lost but I’m trying.

-D

 

*I realized after I posted this that today was Halloween. So, Happy Halloween! It’s kinda sad that I forgot actually, it’s one of my favorite holidays.

the truth

I haven’t been feeling so great lately.

Mental health has always been something that I’ve talked about as a thing of the past. But it isn’t. Not at all. I’ve had my fair share of relapses, but every time I sink a little deeper, I know that I can make my way up. I’m not so sure this time.

I don’t know what’s happening. I feel like I am trying so hard to be okay because I know it isn’t easy for the people around me. And it sure as hell isn’t easy for me either. All the days have blended in with one another and I feel as if I am losing myself. All I want to do is stay in bed and sleep forever. But I know that I can’t. I know that I have responsibilities. I’m supposed to go to college and get straight A’s. Be a good role model for my younger sisters. My parents have invested in me. My family looks up to me. I want to give up. But I can’t.

At the same time, I don’t want to give up. I’m grateful for my life. It’s been a good one. To Nina, Sara, Joe, and Dena: thank you for always supporting me and taking care of me. I hope I haven’t taken anything for granted. I love all of you so much. But I’m not so sure that I can be fixed. I’m not so sure I even have the energy to want to be fixed. I just don’t know anything anymore.

How do you tell people who love you that you can’t do this anymore? That you are just so so tired? That you just want to sink deeper and deeper into yourself until you disappear? That you just. want. to. sleep.

You can’t.

The point of this blog is for me to get my feelings out and to tell the truth. For the longest time, I thought that I always had to write something happy – people love reading happy stories, right? Or if I wrote something sad, it would have to be about how “things are so much better now” or how I learned so much or how I suddenly discovered myself.

But that is not what this post is. I haven’t reached any sort of resolution or conclusion. I’m more lost than I have ever been before. I need help and I don’t know how to get it. I’m tired of trying.