After my post about my energy healing I've decided to name the dark energy Raven. Okay it's not too clever, but sometimes it's just good to keep things simple.

Current Location: School

I went to see an energy healer today for a reading and she said that I had a 'dark energy' that had attached itself to me and had slowly been draining my energy. Maybe I was never a psi-vamp :o I just assumed I had an energy deficiency due to a leak in my aura that couldn't be healed. Perhaps this dark energy was what was sucking my energy.

She said that it was the energy of someone who had committed suicide by drug overdose and had felt regretful about leaving behind a child. Apparently he attached himself to me because I reminded him of his daughter. He felt like he would be judged for his behaviour and face repercussions in the after-life for it. She said that I accepted him as a child because I was lonely and felt I needed him.

I must say I felt bad about her detaching him if this was the case, but she assured me that he'd cross over and be happy.


I'd never had an energy healing before, but I must say that all the talk about angels and the after-life was a bit confrontational for me, as I'm an atheist and don't believe in souls or heaven. I've managed to find truth in things like auras, because I don't link life energy and vibrations to the spiritual world.

I'm a little confused now. On one had I'm quite a cynical person and I know that the fantastic feeling I could be having now might be because of the oils and the relaxation. I felt like she transferred some of her energy into me, but I didn't ask her if this was actually the case.

I thought I should also add that my mother (who I think definitely has a strong ability to manipulate energy without even knowing it, actually it crossed my mind that she might be a psi and not know it) said she felt that I had a blackness around me. She was very concerned about it and said that she didn't feel that I was myself anymore. At the time I (and I think, she) assumed she was referring to my late-teenage angst coupled with my depression. I wouldn't think that two psi vamps feeding subconsciously off each other for the majority of the day would be doing anyone good.

Ahh, I don't know. Perhaps we're just nuts.
Anyway, peace and love to all,
L.K.

I had an odd dream a few nights ago and I couldn't figure out what it meant until I talked to Vincent. I dreamed that I looked down at my forearms and had cuts all over them in a very straight horizontal and vertical hatched pattern, like tartan. 
I realised that it was the same pattern of my quilt cover at the moment.  

This puzzled me until Vincent suggested "comforting like a quilt?" Good work Vincent. :P

Yes, for me my razors, and the thought of cutting is comforting. For a while now I've been trying to figure out why I can't throw out my box of razors when I haven't used them for months. Now I realise they're my safety blanket, and until I feel better I'm not going to be able to just throw away my safety blanket.

Until next time, love from Adelaide, AUS.

Tags: cutting, depression, dream, tartan
Current Location: the hall
Current Mood: amused
Current Music: the used

Vincent recently brought to my attention that I hadn't updated in a while. I know I wrote some stuff a months or two ago while at school with the intention of putting it online when I got home. I remember doing this a few times but as my system of organisation reflects by brain (and my bedroom) I wouldn't have a clue where I wrote these last entries. I'm writing this in one of several identical note books I have, so, fingers crossed this gets online. As with just about everything in my life my passion for LJ was strong at first but then faded when I found other interests and when my time just became too stretched. As far as internet procrastination goes LJ doesn't offer instant gratification and when I open LJ and think about making an entry, the guilt obout how much time it's going to take me to write and entry and what productive work I could should be doing in that time hits me. Heck to that, my phych told me I should write when I'm not feeling too great. At least I'm not cutting, not that I don't want to. But in a 'pros' and 'cons' war writing another one of my pathetic narcissistic entries wins over writing "FAILURE" with a razor on some part of my skin. Writing is apparently the more "adult" thing to do, so as I am now an adult, I suppose I should quit cutting for good, but every time I grab my box of razors and think about throwing them out or handing them over to my mum (who would just throw them out anyway) something stops me. 

Anyway, I'm going to have a whinge and feel sorry for myself, because that's what I joined LJ for. I often feel glad when writing on here that I don't have any i.r.l friends watching on here. I may have mentioned before... gah! I'll edit this later, I'm out of time

They're just small scratches here and there, but facts are facts, I fell off the wagon tonight. I need some positive energy to feed off and some stress relief. It was all too much tonight. I knew i didn't throw away my razors for a reason. I'm not ready to let cutting go, not committed to leaving depression behind. My shrink will most likely want to hear about this. I'm not sure if i should tell her.  Anyway, I needed it tonight. I needed to be able to focus, not on the friend who doesn't love me anymore, but on my maths as i have a test. SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT. Okay, you've had your high time and your vent time, go study girlie.

Dear February,
I long to feel one of my razors, one of my friends along my skin. The hot kiss of pain followed my the anticipation, knowing that soon the red will appear, forming red spheres inflating themselves with salty, metallic goodness. The blood finds its way into the crevices of my skin and spreads into webbed patterns while I watch, amazed. Red on snow white, running down my thigh, caught on cotton squares before hitting my quilt cover. I sigh as I remember how vibrant the results were on my wrists, before I decided to change to somewhere less noticeable. 

Tonight, I kept my promise. My razors stayed in their pill box. It's not a promise I made wanting to keep it. The words 'waste of space', etched into my thigh are barely visible now. I love my scars, they remind me that everything's not okay. If I'm not getting my high from blood, I need to get it from somewhere else, usually food, which is why I'm fat this week. Considering I didn't want to go see a shrink for the past 4 years, I find it odd I want to see her so much now.

 What I'd give to have tears; tears that can stream down my face when I'm sad, and angry, or lonely. Tears that can ruin my mascara and soak my pillow. If they do come, they are gone too soon, barely noticeable moisture in my eyes. Please, I just want to cry, for hours, like I did at Chris' when I was drunk. I felt so free. I want to be free, changed, but I've known depression for so long now that I like it. I'm afraid I won't be myself if I'm not depressed. I love getting low, but only genuinely. That's why I listen to the sad songs, look at the sad pictures, read the sad poetry and forums. I guess I'm sick of being "fine" all the time, sick of being numb. Nothing realle makes me depressed like myself. All I want is to be normal, but what is normal anyway? And what if I discover that I don't like normal, or that normal is boring?

I want to stop needing the food, stop looking for the next fix all the time. I want the pills. I don't know how normal people feel. Is it good? Or do they just percieve our feelings as so much worse than ours that normal must feel good to us?

If someone killed me right now I would love it. At the moment I don't want to die because I want to do a few things and have a bit more fun before I die. But really, I'm not going to care when I'm dead anyway, so I don't suppose it really matters. That being said, the moments before dying, knowing your life was a waste and you never did anything worthwile would be damn scary. 

I have twitches, I hope it's Huntington's. I desperately want to feel sorry for myself. To a certain extent I've come to secretly crave their pity too, despite saying that I hate it. But I probably do it all for me, so I can feel self-pity. I'm the opposite of someone acting to be proud of themself. I want to be sick, but not in a Munchausen's way. I don't want to just think I'm sick, I want to tick all the symptomatic boxes too. Skip the bull shit, you might as well just go for the heroine now. Or just kill yourself. I bet you'd feel mighty sorry for yourself when gasping for air.

Now, dear, give yourself a pat on the back for writing this much and mentioning suicide twice. You make me sick. You ARE a waste of space. Oh, you're REALLY loving this now, aren't you? Go to sleep before you write even more crap you can be embarassed about later, when you're reading stuff you've written in the past in order to depress yourself.  

I just thought I'd document my dream before i forget it. I need to figure it out.


OK,  it was somewhere dry, possibly Gallipoli or Africa. I was in a room of a quite nice and presentable house. There is a young man in a uniform standing by the window. Either he opened the window easily or it was already open, but he dive-flops over the window sil to the barren ground not far below, as do i. He runs over land, and sand dunes, being chased by the well-to-do, but not snobby sons of the house. We run, and crouch and lay in the dunes, and then run again. There doesn't feel like a whole lot of hope in the escape, like he knows the men are going to catch up to him eventually, but he's trying anyway. When they catch him they hang him by the shore in the dunes with sea grass blowing in the breeze. They are very matter-of-fact about it, like they don't want to, but have no option. Like this is just how it is, and this isn't the first time it's happened. I can't quite remember but i think i may be hiding in a shed.

This anger keeps growing and seeping all through me,
Seeping through my body like ink on paper,
The trickles become streams,
And the streams become river of red,
Which irrigate the fields of black growing in my heart,
And spreading across my mind and eyes.

And I wish I could cry,
To wash everything clean,
Wash all the anger out of me,
And i wish I could cry,
Let the saline tears kill the black,
And let me live freely again.

But instead I find myself right back here again,
Cutting my flesh,
Trying to bleed the anger out through my skin,
With a cheap razor blade.

And the anger barely shifts,
But I'm distracted from its destruction,
Temporarily unaware of the erosion,
Temporarily not despairing,

While I'm fascinated by the high,
Smiling from the adrenaline,
Fully aware the happy is only chemical,
But able to think clearly,
Content at living another day

Tags: anger, cutting, depression
Current Location: my room
Current Music: Nightwish

i want to die, preferably before school tomorrow. It's all my own stupid fault and if i hadn't spent so much fucking time on this computer doing nothing. I can see my draft in the toolbar below but i can't bring myself to do anything to it. Too bad it was due last week. You're not going to get this major done, you're going to fail this subject, you're going to fail this year, you're never going to university, you're going to be a check-out chick for the rest of your life. You suck at life, you never have the commitment to succeed at anything you do. You're the laziest quitter i know. You're a coward.

And procrastinating some more with this entry has not made you feel better like you hoped. End it now and stop wasting the planet's resources.

i
want
to
cut
so
bad


I spent most of the day procrastinating, working on my 'i think the eyes have it' doodle.  it's turned into a 2 page thing now