Life, and not getting what you want.

I think I’m in danger of causing rifts in my family.

I’ve achieved something today. I asked to do more of something and none of something else, and I’m paying for it.

This time, I feel like I’m awful.

I have upset my sister so much she’s no longer speaking to me. It’s like I don’t exist. I have tried to be everything to everyone, and I’ve hurt her in the process.

I have quit dancing as a career properly today. I decided I was shutting that door and moving on. As a result, I’ve dropped out of all the dance classes I was dancing in for more time to actually do my work on the massage qualification I’m desperately trying to get.

My sister is furious.

She wanted to joint-run a dance company with me, but since I haven’t been well again I’ve been re-evaluating things in my life that continue to hurt me. I have decided that dancing as a career is one of them. This, of course, puts paid to the joint company, and I’ve really hurt her by that.

The problem is, I’ve had enough of the dance world. Looking at my pointe shoes was starting to make me upset. I hurt so badly some night when I finish dancing because of my back, but sometimes also because I hate being in the dance studio all day, every day again. I loved it when my body was whole and did anything I told it to. Now I hate it because I hate that my leg will not lift at the back. I hate it because I have a TWO YEAR gap in my CV which will make all the professional dance companies out there laugh if I ever was to hand it in. The dance world is harsh and brutal and nobody cares if you get injured, because it means it was your fault and you were never good enough anyway, because a REAL dancer will never get injured because they’re too clever for all that.

My sis hasn’t faced quite everything I’ve faced yet in the dance world, although she knows just as much as I do how horribly cruel and unforgiving it can be. What she doesn’t understand yet is what it feels like to have no drive or passion for something you once loved dearly.

I hate the sight of the studios now. I hate my figure in the mirror, making shapes that aren’t what they used to be. My feet and legs look awkward and clumsy to me, and I hate how much effort I have to put into simple steps.

She will hopefully never feel like this. I never want her to feel this way. To hate the art that once nurtured you, to hate it so much you never want to dance or teach dancing again- that’s agony worse than a broken back.

What I have to do now is explain that to her, and hope that her hurt lifts. I don’t want to push her away even more with my idiocy, and my terror of telling the truth.

The reason I’m terrified of telling the truth?

Every time I did, my ex would push me away into a nowhere-state, filled with silence. That was worse that the other way it could go, which was rage. Give me the rage any time.

Right now, this silence could drown out the whole world.

Letters to Hell part 2.

I hoped I wouldn’t have cause to write a part two of this, but here I am again. That guy A wrote to me last week and I have been trying to process it, and make head or tail of it. Unfortunately, I am stuck in a rut of self-hate whenever I read it.

He claims he has been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, that I ruined his life, that I caused him to have a breakdown and that essentially, I have broken him. He said that his girlfriend has told him to stop writing to me- I doubt she even knows. He used to do a lot of things behind her back whilst telling me that she was suspicious of him- like I wasn’t supposed to hint at the fact we used to talk online a lot whilst she was around.

I know I am not an angel where that whole awful mess was concerned. I beat myself up over the whole situation frequently. The problem is, I have no normal frame of reference for a relationship and I am not sure if I just was the biggest, most fucked up mess that happened to them, or if me and her were being used. I suspect we were. I just don’t know it.

As such, I’m posting the mail he wrote, of course devoid of real names. I’m not that much of a bitch. The reason I’m posting this is because I need to know if we were both being played again or if it was me.

Can people possibly read and let me know?

Thank you.

 

Hi. Well here I am again, messaging you. Wondering if you ever even see these. Seems stupid when you think about it, but I’ve found it helps. My girlfriend says I need to move on with my life. It’s obvious you have. I guess I just hate it when things go unsaid. It wont end you know. Not for me. You came into my life and shook the foundation of my existence the way no other person has. You made my world brighter and darker. I now am diagnosed with Bi-polar disorder which in truth, explains a lot. I’m ill most of the time which makes work very hard and I don’t really have many people left in my life. You destroyed my life, and yet I don’t know how to feel in regards to you. You’ve moved on from that time and place that we spent together but I’m haunted by the memory of you. I hate you more passionately than I’ve ever hated anyone. But I know somewhere down I’m still in love with the mad woman I met. To be honest I don’t even know if she was real. If you were real. I wish I knew. You’ll probably never see this and even if you do you probably wont reply. You haven’t replied to anything I’ve sent in the last year or so. But at least if you do I can move on. Or maybe you like the idea of my suffering, I don’t really know.  I sit and wait for this to end.

A

TW: PTSD dreams suck.

I just woke up from yet another dream where I’m worthless and violated as those pictures I posted the other day. I’m curled up on the couch at the moment, desperately trying not to fall asleep again. I don’t want the dream coming back.

It was him but he was pretending he saw nothing wrong in the things he’d just done to me, and I wasn’t supposed to “put this on” him. How can I not!!?? He wasn’t listening again, deaf to me and my protests. Deaf to my tears and my pain.

This morning I really want J, ironically enough. I want him here for a hug, and to let me know it will all be ok, baby. I miss being able to wake up and know he is there, just in case something bad is happening in the prison of my mind. Right now he is hopefully sleeping, so I can’t just pick up the phone. I did drop him a quick message, but he hasn’t answered, seeing as it’s late where he is.

I am so tired. I just want to sleep. That’s all I want. Can some part of my life not be tainted with this horror!?

No rest.

Today is yet another bad day. The voices hate me. I am sick of waiting for the psychiatrist. I am sick of trying to drag this diseased carcass through another abuse-filled day. I hate the inner contents of my head.

The voices were merciless today. They told me that I have no one to rely on, that nobody cares and that I am going to have to make another attempt on my life. I have argued with them, fought them, yelled at them and ignored them, and for what? Literally another earful of abuse.

Someone called me a slut today. The voices loved that. Some unknown commenter trying to insult my boyfriend said one of my trigger words, and I am at 5% on my moodscope score… Not much needed to push me the fuck over the edge.

Why am I such a loser? Why can I not be normal? Why can I not have a brain that works properly?

I think the psychiatrist doesn’t give a flying fuck about me, considering that it has now been TWO FUCKING WEEKS  with no communication save what I have begged out of them. Monday, I had to cope with a whole goddamn day of dissociation. Today, and a couple of days ago, voices and flashbacks. I want an end, and if I don’t get one soon I am terrified that I will listen to my stupid auditory hallucinations and go for another attempt.

Really, at this point I am out of fucking options.

Relapse

I did it. I relapsed. The new blades are really sharp and so pretty. I feel like a failure again, ashamed and dirty. Maybe this is what I am forever, all I ever am. I’m nicely anaesthetised, though. All emotion is fading, and soon this shame will vanish too.

Maybe there is no end to this, and I will always be a screwed up failure, addicted to the blade and to death. One day I might finally succeed and get there and die and finally alleviate the world of my presence, because I am worthless, just like the dark passenger tells me I am.

What is the point of asking for help when everything just gets worse? What is the point of living when all I do is die every day in my own head and the dark passenger wins?

I’m sorry. All I do is fail everyone. I should just man up, get on with life and stop complaining, or finish the job I tried to start when I ended up in A and E.

The dark passenger, sluggish and sated, yawns and agrees with me. “The quicker the better. Hurry up.”

I hate you

I hate you, you sick bastard. I hate what you did to me. I live in hell now every day and I have nothing left, not even my pride. You took it all- my virginity, my self-worth, my trust in myself, and left me a hollow, scooped out, bleeding nothing. Why do you get away Scot free and I am left bleeding and alone!?!
Go and fucking die for all I care, but make sure you give me back my heart- you know, the one you stole that was never yours. Whilst you’re at it, apologise to my ex girlfriend, because you helped screw up our relationship even though you weren’t there.
You self-centred bastard. I am a wreck, and it’s all down to you.

I hate my memories.

So on Monday, I remembered something awful about my ex boyfriend. You know, the one that I have written about in my blog, only back then we were still together.
I have no idea how to handle this memory. I am torn up, in pieces, scattered like a sheet of paper, burned and crumbling to pieces. I can’t believe it. I doubt myself, but then the whole sordid thing flashes through my head again and I want to throw up, or cut again, or scream. I can’t believe that so much was so wrong with us that he had to take that as well.
Can someone please, please help me? I’m running out of willpower to keep going with the butterfly challenge because they all flew away now, bar one that is a transfer tattoo and was put on by someone I don’t know. The important ones are gone.
I am sick and tired of life doing this to me. I cannot face another day this shamed, this used.
He scooped the insides out of me and left me bleeding, hollow, soulless, with no self-respect and no pride. I am a void, a dark fathomless chasm.of pain and anxiety and fear and hurt.
I am a broken doll, value spent and gone because of the fine cracks laced through me. What was I ever worth?