larakim

Safety blanket

Sun, 07 Sep 2008 11:29:43 GMT

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.

The prodigal daughter returns

Thu, 21 Aug 2008 03:21:03 GMT

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

Relapse

Mon, 16 Jun 2008 12:14:40 GMT

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.

something old, something new

Wed, 04 Jun 2008 00:15:21 GMT

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.

Last night..

Sun, 11 May 2008 11:59:17 GMT

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.

the angricultural industry

Sat, 03 May 2008 10:31:15 GMT

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

kill me please

Sun, 30 Mar 2008 11:05:51 GMT

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.

slashy-slash

Wed, 26 Mar 2008 11:39:39 GMT

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

Keeping busy

Fri, 21 Mar 2008 13:19:24 GMT

I try to still my mind and turn up my senses,
Absorb my environment

The music, the mess, the freshly vacuumed carpet.

Ready to write
Ready to get lost,
in my efforts to distract myself from cutting,
until it's late enough for me to be tired,
and because there's nobody online who cares enough to distract me,
Or who even knows,
Oh sure there are some guys online who care enough about me to try get in my pants
But tonight that doesn't make me feel good about myself
Just fuck off losers

Writing is like cutting,
When you cut, you make a mark, it heals and scars,
It reminds you where you've been and why you were there
What you've been through to get where you are

Every scar tells a story, full of memories
Not just those caused by the blades in the pill box in my desk drawer
The scars that tell stories of chicken-pox,
pimples,
playground mishaps,
falling down the stairs,
being pushed over on the court,
But the scars that you know best,
Are the ones you controlled,
Like an artist working carefully or haphazardly,
Watching the shapes that unfold
The feeling that what you've created is either beautiful,
Or terrible
and feeling that the lines before you are either inspiring,
Or frightening,
Patterns,
Words,
Hearts,
Initials,
Xs and Os
Little games of tic-tac-toe on my skin
Reminding me of the games I play in my head with myself
That I can never win, without losing too

Lonely hearts club [banned]

Fri, 21 Mar 2008 12:34:37 GMT

Whore - that's what he called me, and even though I know he was joking all jokes start from some truth. He doesn't know what it's like to try to do anything to be close to people, just to try to not feel lonely.

I keep thinking that it should be impossible to feel lonely while so close to someone.
How could I possibly feel lonely with someone inside me? Goes to show how little I really know, even though I like to think I'm intelligent, a deep thinker. It seems the more I think the less I know.

I cut to have a break from thinking, because when I think I think about how worthless I am, and how I'm just wasting my time being here.

My mother was right, even if I hate her too much to tell her she's right for once, I am a waste of space.

So anyway, this is why I have banned myself from relationships (again). Whenever my depression gets this bad I get involved in some loser who I'll end up dating, and then when I get better, hating. My friends will tell me for ages that he's not good enough for me before I realise it.

So I'll stick to having my sex with people who don't respect me, in search of some endorphins and a little affection.

Fading night

Tue, 24 Jul 2007 12:20:09 GMT

One,
Two,
I step,
I sigh,
My shoe,
Lies ahead of me,
I inch towards it,
He sucks in heavy breaths,
A rattle in his chest,
He bleeds from every orifice he owns,
The thick warm liquid trickles down the blades of grass under his thigh,
He looks towards me,
Reaching out to me with his eyes,
I warned him his habit would be his undoing,
Shady characters,
I foresaw his ending,
He failed to heed my warnings,
Now his shamed and broken soul says,
"You were right",
I don't care,
I think he expects me to say 'I told you so'
He says he's sorry,
He wished he'd listened,
He thanks me for being his friend,
I wished I could have done more,
But nothing I had said or done would have prevented this,
He was too deep in when I met him,
I think,
The dark circles under his eyes,
Mirror the dark circles under his soul,
I can't help but cry as he exhales,
Watching the stars glimmer one last time,
His background for his nightly activities,
For the past year and a half,
Fading one last time,
But not because of the fading night,
Because of the fading life in his head,
Cold light soaking up from his toes,
Trying to hang on,
But too tired to care anymore,
His white flag lies soaked with his blood,
It doesn't matter anymore,
I close his eyes,
He is gone forever,
I buy coffee and wait for my next troubled friend to appear

surrender

Wed, 11 Jul 2007 12:53:23 GMT

Twice, last night
my legs gave out from under me,
the sudden contact of my face with the cold concrete made me gasp

As my body cracked open
anger and energy spilled out of me
and down the drain,
utterly exhausted,
I gave in

the fall

Tue, 22 May 2007 12:04:55 GMT

slowly sanity slips from my grasp,
each day i feel further and further from normal,
what is causing this?
do i want to know?
do i care?
will it change anything if i do know?
the gentle whispers in my head call to me when i'm tryin to think,
they become louder when i listen to them,
but if i ignore them they still persist,
their out of time chants make my field of vision spin,
but i can't prove that they're even there,
or if they're something my imagination and subconscious have concocted,
in order to make me believe that i'm sick,
so that i'll give myself more attention,
so that i go easier on myself,
or so that i make others care about me,