My therapist told me that when I get anxiety and urges to self harm; that I should start writing. So last night, I did. (If you have trigger points, related to self harm, do not read further.)
“I’m a disease. An epidemic. And I’m gonna spread like I always do until everyone I love is the same broken worthless piece of shit as me. Until they also become dysfunctional.
The worst part about me is that I look like a wonderful human being but all that is a lie, a cover up to make people fall for this act of innocence and purity. And when they start to love me, oh boy. I start releasing my venom slowly into their veins until the began to need me and become paralysed. Then I heal them and act like I am an angel.
I’m a disease. An epidemic. I go around pretending I have a disease and I take medicines for it but that is not true. It’s all me.
And that is why I deserve these scratches on my arm. Heck I deserve them everywhere. I deserve blood coming out of my broken skin cause I am a seemingly beautiful mess that deceives nice people.
Why am I even asking for help and letting them know about this? Now that they have started to realize how full of shit I am and have begun to try and care for themselves away from me because they really can’t do it near me because I ruin it. Why now? I should stop. 11 times or 121; why should anyone know? Why not cut them all off and run away? Once and for all? Just me and my demons dancing together in perfect harmony cause we belong in each other’s arms.
It’s better than slowly being hated and hated and hated and hated and hated until one day they just say it out loud that I don’t deserve anything from them. It’s better to say it to myself beforehand. It’s better to leave everyone beforehand. Before I hurt them. Before I burn them. Before I make them bleed like they made me.“
Damn, that felt good. I would say I’m sorry for making you read that but I’m really not. I wanted to show you what anxiety and depression look like and I was in it when it was the only reality I could see so I don’t want to apologise.
Now, to the “beautiful saviors” themselves, the mental illnesses.
First of all, fuck you.
I would say I hate you
but you’ve lived inside of me
For more years than I can count
And I don’t want to accidentally say I hate myself.
Come on, you already made me do that
nine thousand and two times
(not counting accidents).
You say you’re here to protect me from all the abhorrent people
but they seem to me, to be
the ones who birthed you within me
And now you want me to be the surrogate carrier?
I’m sorry but I don’t love you that way
Or them, for that matter.
You’re not here to save me
from anyone but myself.
And I’m the only good thing I know
I don’t want to be safe from my best friend,
Or my mom
Or even the boy who left,
These are my loves.
You can’t twist them and break me
and take them away.
You’re a perpetrator
I know I fell for your tricks
and that should make me less than you
I am strong as hell.
And you can watch me someday,
spreading all the love I have in me,
today. And so can they.
For my heart will forever be open
Even if it’s scared to fall in love again
Even when it can’t trust people
or want to make my own bed
or pray to my Allah.
You won the battle last night,
and I am going to have to carry these scars on my arms
as proofs, forever.
I’m winning the war.