1_21Guns
December 21st, 2009, 08:41 PM
Drawers, cluttered with little books containing scrawbles of the past. Some of them the handwriting looks so young, its scary.
'Dad shout loud because he can't here himself think'
'everything i do is wrong'
'my mum hasn't asked if i like what we're having for tea'
then a little girls drawing of a girl, thought bubble coming off saying 'i hate me'
Little book after book just filled with sleepless nights, just pages and pages of feelings and hurt. Pictures of me when I was younger, with my Dad, following me around the room everywhere I turn.
All over my room, objects I hoped i'd lost, found and shoved away, catching my eye at a glance of thier hiding place. Taking them out. Pulling them apart. Seeing the damage its done. Pieceing it all back together, putting it back, hoping maybe i'll forget again. Just maybe.
Screams of 'you're imagininig things, you're delusional, you're crazy' ringing through my head, louder and louder each time. I'm almost starting to believe it.
A continual battle with paranoia over whats right and wrong with every move I make. Theres always something wrong. Something that could go wrong. Something not quite right about it.
The alcohol, staring me in the face, looking better than the other drinks that sit on my desk. It'll help me sleep. Or so I keep telling myself.
Trying everything I used to know to sleep, writing things, reading, drinking, crying. None of it works anymore, every page is just another sleepless night.
Anything sharp cries out to me. I want to cut, I'm not going to lie. I want to cut. It doesn't help, I say. But I never have done anything to help myself, not really.
I'm losing it again. I can't take it anymore. Its too much. I still have to get through christmas. I still have to make it to next year. Pieces of me are just slipping through my fingers, falling away like the pieces that fell years ago. Shattering like glass, too sharp... too small to be picked up completely. Always one shard missing, always something not there. Always another scar left to be faced. Sure its not always on the outside where everyone can see. But I know its there. I know its killing me. I know its ripping me apart.
I can't stand this anymore. Its too much.
Sorry for the essay guys. I just needed to get that out ;/
'Dad shout loud because he can't here himself think'
'everything i do is wrong'
'my mum hasn't asked if i like what we're having for tea'
then a little girls drawing of a girl, thought bubble coming off saying 'i hate me'
Little book after book just filled with sleepless nights, just pages and pages of feelings and hurt. Pictures of me when I was younger, with my Dad, following me around the room everywhere I turn.
All over my room, objects I hoped i'd lost, found and shoved away, catching my eye at a glance of thier hiding place. Taking them out. Pulling them apart. Seeing the damage its done. Pieceing it all back together, putting it back, hoping maybe i'll forget again. Just maybe.
Screams of 'you're imagininig things, you're delusional, you're crazy' ringing through my head, louder and louder each time. I'm almost starting to believe it.
A continual battle with paranoia over whats right and wrong with every move I make. Theres always something wrong. Something that could go wrong. Something not quite right about it.
The alcohol, staring me in the face, looking better than the other drinks that sit on my desk. It'll help me sleep. Or so I keep telling myself.
Trying everything I used to know to sleep, writing things, reading, drinking, crying. None of it works anymore, every page is just another sleepless night.
Anything sharp cries out to me. I want to cut, I'm not going to lie. I want to cut. It doesn't help, I say. But I never have done anything to help myself, not really.
I'm losing it again. I can't take it anymore. Its too much. I still have to get through christmas. I still have to make it to next year. Pieces of me are just slipping through my fingers, falling away like the pieces that fell years ago. Shattering like glass, too sharp... too small to be picked up completely. Always one shard missing, always something not there. Always another scar left to be faced. Sure its not always on the outside where everyone can see. But I know its there. I know its killing me. I know its ripping me apart.
I can't stand this anymore. Its too much.
Sorry for the essay guys. I just needed to get that out ;/