But the problem is me. It’s in my veins. It’s running through my head. Everyday. Every second. When I feel my own sickening heart beat and I feel so fucking sick to the gut.

Can you stomach the fact that I hate the fact that blood runs though my veins? That I constantly think of ending myself. Because I can’t bare being alive. Because I can’t take it. When I’m alone in my own head and the voices are screaming at me to just finish the damn job and there’s no pill to stop it. No drug accessible enough for me to sleep. Sleep forever. As long as I can.

When my own skin gets increasingly uncomfortable to slip into as the days go by and I get urges to tear myself out of it. When I say I want to die and I really, really mean it.

When no matter how far I run I can’t get away from myself. To a point where I can’t look or recognise myself in the mirror.

This is my reality. I wish eating and sleeping right would make everything better. I wouldn’t be afraid of empty padded rooms then. Screams in the middle of the night wouldn’t be normal. Finding random suicide notes around the house wouldn’t be worrying.

Please don’t say I’m making shit excuses. Don’t say you’re angry, it’s not fair. It’s not my fault. I’m just trying to be honest with you.

But if you hurt me every single time I try, I will lie to you.

I will lie to you every single time.


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