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“And… NO SINGING!!!”

   By jfarrell

(sorry, gotta give credit to Monty Python; those three words, because of depression, sums up 99.9% of my life :-) “…..a sceptic tank? You WERE lucky……”)

Misery is a peculiar mistress;

You’re not listening, why would I? Hate this place;

But…., you’re tapping your foot and

“And…. NO SINGING!!!”

So, you stand there;

Trying to smile, but in a nice way;

Trying to mask the misery; the bitterness;

A complete stranger smiles at me and…..

“And… NO SINGING!!!”

Alone, at last;

Get my shoes off; let my mask down;

Cutting, so, so deep…… yesssssss…. comfort…..

My criss-crossed cuts release the bitterness I feel…..

“And…. NO SINGING!!!”

Every pleasure; music, reading, cutting,

Films, the whole of life, of people and everything after that;

Every nice feeling is accompanied by a voice;

“And…. NO SINGING!!!!”;

If ever I find the owner I cutting his throat.

I used to be happy
Now I don't know what that is
I was a child when everthing went to shit
Two deaths in the family 
And then a friend died 
My mother's boyfriend turned abusive 
I now have scars to hide
Self-harm I started to help with the pain
Until my hand slipped and I had to go to the ER
I was forced to see a therapist 
And things started to get better
Until the day my mothers friend 
Someone like a brother
Decide to see if he liked children 
Everything came crashing back down 
I had a major break down 
My self-harm started back up 
My therapist I quit 
School I stopped going 
I just laid in bed 
Trying not to think 
Two years have passed since then 
My self-harm I stopped 
I go out now 
I even have friends
But i'm not happy
To many scars
Both physical and mental 
Will stop me from ever being happy.

wide eyed and terrified

aesthetically profound

with gills on her heart

hold her under until she drowns

thin lipped and stripped

beautifully bound

with hooks in her heart

hold her under until she drowns

It's been so long since I've attempted to write about getting better.

For in the same breath that I assured my father that I was going to be okay, I choked on my own vomit and melted into the bathroom floor.

So, when I'm writing this garbage about acceptance with myself.

I can't help to feel like a hypocrite as I organize my priorities and put my well-being at the bottom of the shelf.

It's haunting because I've been in this distancing daze for years, but the triggers are so ripe and intense when they find me.

How can I tell anyone to look up or relax... when I am holding hands with bloody knuckles and smiling with a mouthful of decay.

If I even tried to compile a list of what's eating at me, I'd probably just eat it first and throw it up and hope that what I had to feel disoriented about was good enough to be considered depressed. An excuse I need to pardon myself from the chaos I've subjected you to. The name for myself when manic is busy, when numbness is too conflicting to bare. 

For even if I had tears in my eyes, they would need to have a viable reason for being there. When they tell you that you're doing this to yourself and in anger and in rage I beg you not to stare for my perception of my reflection and neutral demeanor aren't tangible things I can unravel into an excuse because they're so tightly bound and secured to my ego and sickened by the asymmetry  of my face and the sound of my own voice.

How could I tell you that it isn't anything except for the fact that I am and will be. 

That I honestly cannot picture myself a year from now, that I couldn't tell you if I'd even be here.

While I reach out to others and help them find their way, I refuse to apply what I believe to myself because I am so incredibly undeserving.

Blindly reaching for my incentive to leave behind the comfort of self-doubt , and am I really suprised when cannot find a reasom enough to fill the spaces I've dug out.

I take a disgusting amount of time to decorate my ship and send it out to sea and hope that it sinks.

And pity myself every night for not being the person that if I didn't do this, I could so easily be.

I've cried myself to sleep, high on things I couldn't name.

Staying up and over-processing, and towards the morning I feel what resembles okay.

So, this is me writing something about getting better.

I hope that someday I can say that I have.

But for now, if I wrote something about getting better.

I might never write a conclusion.

Won't even know how to start.

If I clung too tightly
to a hand that wasn't necessarily mine to hold
know that I took the accidental brushing of knuckles on that summer walk deeper than the world is old
and when you told me that you didn't feel quite right and I said I felt that way too
as sorry as I was to hear that you're scribbled I felt less inside myself to share the vision of eskewed

I know what I'm doing

is seen as very wrong,

but there's something

about it that draws me in....

The feeling of pain

when i touch the blade

against my skin,

the sight of the blood

popping up to the surface

as i drag the blade,

the sensation of both

panic and calm,

mixing together

in my mind.

I know I shouldn't

do this,

but I actually like it

The way my skin heals

and then leaves a scar behind,

to remind me:

I'm still here,

I'm still alive,

I still bleed,

I still heal.

I'm not gone,

I'm not dead,

I'm not bloodless,

I'm not unfixable....

This cutting 

makes me feel again...

It happens when

you're all alone....

No one answering your calls

No one answering your texts

No one there for you...

That's when you look over,

and you see your blade.

That faithful friend...

That friend who's always there

when no one else is around.

That friend that 

can bring you comfort,

bring you freedom,

make you.... 

alive.

You don't dare 

tell others that 

this is how you feel...

That, even though it's wrong,

you actually....

enjoy the blade.

You keep that inside, 

it's your little secret. 

You slowly reach out,

knowing you shouldn't

but you're done resisting,

and ready for that comfort. 

So that's when you 

go ahead,

you hold it in your hand, 

feeling the familiarity of it.

You place it to your skin,

you press it down,

you pull on it,

you drag it across your skin.

You give in and let it win.

You cut.....

You give in.

Not yet, not yet.

I’ll still give you another chance yet.
Life, is it you who gives me the chances
Or is it I who give them to you?
On the other hand,
Must I provide them to myself?

In fact, I will give you more than one
For I am patient.
I am in no immediate rush,
Although that is a lie,
For I am becoming restless.

Seventeen years of you and I want one of us gone.
Though who will push who to leave?
(Ha, that is obvious.) We will go together
For I see nothing other than the end
In its most clearest of darkness…

The dangers of hearing and seeing;
To be sensitive is to be tortured in my own self-made prison.
That which I keep so clean and pampered
Until a momentary lapse in judgment wishes to scar it
For eternity.

I am not ready,
Yet.

As I stand here,
My grip tight around the slender neck
My friend, my comfort, my poison.
He screams,
Words digging under my skin.
I wish I could say
"Leave me"
The plea, choking me
"Leave me alone,
let me destroy myself in peace"