Painting and writing helps me I suppose. Well I say it helps me, and I say I'm painting and writing. I'm scrawling nonsesne, either with a brush or pencil. And if those don't work I scrawl on my skin with a razor.
I showed my friend some of my delirious 1:00 am paintings. All inspired by the voices slamming into the sides of my head. He said they were confusing and hurtful because he could see that's how I felt when I randomly swirled colours, patterns and the occasional group of words onto a page. He wasn't wrong.
But once all the art stuff is put away it's still the early hours of the morning and I'm still hurting.
The I write. Or plant random words onto a page. Waisting another bit of notebook. Not really getting anything off my mind. Usually the paper then stares me in the face, blank and accusing. Blank and accusing. Just like my brain. By this time I'm running out of options, but I don't want to sleep. I'm tired but sleep is waisting my time. Everything is waisting my time. I'm waiting my time.
It's always too full outside of me, it's always empty inside me. And I can never explain the emptiness, the silence only punctuated by fake emotion and screaming inside my skull. Perhaps a way to explain inside my head vaguely is a shower, stick with me on this, I feel numb so I turn the water freezing to shock myself into feeling something, I feel too much and I turn the water boiling hot to numb me. That may make some sense.
I should feel guilty when I feel nothing for people, but I don't. Then I should feel sad for not feeling guilty, but I don't. I don't remember the last time I cried, not that I won't. It's due someday soon but I'm numb more than I'm not. What's it all for? What's all this emotion for? I hate feeling too much, I hate feeling nothing but I hate the in-between where feelings are simple and I have no depth as a person. To put it simply, I'm a human car crash. A human oxymoron. And I hate it.
Drag a blade across your skin, a little voice tells me. Feel something. I ignore it. Multiple voices start screaming the command. I obey. There's only so many places you can drag a blade across a body and keep the marks hidden. It's quite sad really at how good I've become. People stop asking if your okay because you've become so good at pretending you are.
How many times do I do it? That used to be a question I would ask. I would deliberate between deep cuts or thin cuts, many or few. Now the answer is how ever many it takes. How ever many you need. Deep as you like. But I'm in control of my pain right. Right? I tell myself I'm in control but I've stopped worrying about that. I looked in the mirror once and liked what I saw, I dislike it now for many reasons, reasons for another day. I've become so self destructive that the voices outside my head can never tell me things worse than I tell myself.
You can never hurt me as much as I hurt myself honey.
I don't tell people that. I don't tell people anything. Except you, dear reader. And who knows where I am now, what I'm doing now, when I'll come back to this. Will I come back to this? I hope so. Because at least I have you right? Assuming someone will read this mess. I hope at least one person reads this mess. Because one person is better than none. And I will try. I do try.
I'm just not that good at succeeding.
But you, whatever bought you here. I can at least ask you to try with me. At least try. Because something is better than nothing.
