Stolen Sympathy For All My Worst Mistakes.

“You’ve been really quiet today, are you alright? What’s wrong with you this morning?” As if you’d fucking care if I did tell you. No one cares. No one gives a shit. Why would I tell you when it wouldn’t even matter in the long run? Just leave me alone, leave me like everyone does. Nobody will ever give even half a fuck about what I want and what I’m feeling. So just fuck off.

Listening to my BPD Playlist™️ (one of many) and thinking really hard about where I went wrong in my life. I sat in the floor of the cold shower for fifteen minutes Friday after work and just decompressed, tried to bring myself to cry because I know I need it, but couldn’t. I laid in bed and stared at the ceiling for what felt like an eternity this evening just thinking. Thinking about where it all went wrong. Thinking about when the last time I felt genuinly, really happy was, if there even was a last time— why can’t I remember the last time? Thinking about how I need to kill myself, because the longer I keep going like this the worse-off everyone who’s made the stupid decision of getting attached to me will be when I eventually do it, because it’s not an if, it’s a when. I lived this long because I’m too much of a coward to go through with what’s the inevitable outcome of my life. I daydream often about killing myself. I think about the consequences and I try to come up with the solutions that would hurt the least people, but there are none; it’s selfish of me to go and it’s selfish of me to stay. I should’ve just ended my life when I was younger, when it would’ve been better for everyone. Everyone would’ve moved on by now. Why didn’t I? Why was I such a fucking coward? Now I have to keep going, I don’t get a choice, because what I want doesn’t matter and never has. Because it’d be selfish if I went. No one will ever understand how much my heart aches daily, how much it hurts just to be constantly reminded that I’d be missed when some days I feel like I just want to peel off all of the parts of me that people “like” and leave them with nothing but the bad awful disgusting parts of me that I keep buried deep down so that they’d leave when they saw the real me. I think all the time about killing myself in front of the people that “care” because I know they couldn’t handle the real me; no one can, I’m a parasite, I’m a disgusting fucking pest, I’m ugly on the inside and everyone who catches a glimpse of it always leaves. How often is one supposed to spend thinking about how fundamentally unlovable they are? How many days can I do this before I drive myself crazy? God, I wish someone could come along and do the easy part for me; I imagine that a lot, too. I daydream about all of the hundreds of ways I could die and I’d be so, so happy when I did, because then I’d finally be free. I can’t run from myself, I can’t run from what’s inside of me that drives everyone away in the end. What other solution is there? What’s even left?

Do you ever daydream about hopping on a greyhound going as far away as physically possible and disappearing off the face of the Earth to start a new life. Or are you normal

I feel like I should be over it by now.

This is the most attention I’ve got in months. This is the most normal I’ve felt in months. So what if this is all I’m good for? God, it’s so much better than nothing, even if this is all I am. Just use me, will you? Use me, just don’t leave me alone. I can’t handle it.

I’m thinking about going to therapy again. I don’t know, maybe I can find a therapist that actually seems to care about the bullshit going on in my head? It’d be nice someone who wants to listen to my problems and gives a shit, but keeping it all inside like this’ll probably kill me if I keep it up.