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(no subject)  
11:14pm 30/06/2012
Dear Absolute Fuckwit, aka Dad, The irony of you telling me that I should look for the good in a person before the bad, is so far beyond hilarious that it comes full circle right back to sad and pathetic. As for telling me that before I look for either and voice any kind of opinion I should try standing on my own two feet... You took out your violent tempers, your stubborn egotism that you knew better than anybody in the world, the inferiority complexes of fifty-plus years out on your wife and children for years. We had to bear the brunt of your alcoholicsm, as result of which both your daughters got depressive personalities and life-long inferiority complexes that we will probably pass on to your grandkids, should we be stupid enough to pass on your fuckwit genes. I see you as you are now, and you are nothing but a weak, pathetic, ignorant bully. So thanks Dad, for fucking me up this much and then having the unmitigated gall to blame me for not being able to stand on my own two feet. Having a heart attack might have got you to quit killing yourself with smokes and drink, but there really is no cure for being a natural born asshole. I don&;#39;t need your fucking help, except to pay my tuition. After twenty-five years worth of putting up with and suffering your neuroses, you fucking owe me.<br /><br />Thank you for providing me with a compass in life; all I have to do is look at you to get a textbook example of everything I should never let myself become. If I succeed in life, or at least claw myself out of this morass of self-loathing and anxiety and guilt you have so handily helped me dig myself into, it will be in spite of you and not because of you.<br /><br />When you die and go to hell I hope they show you exactly what a small, destructive little fuck up you really are, and what an utter disappointment you have been to your children.<br /><br />Thank you.<br /><br />Hoping you read this on your deathbed,<br />Your daughter.
mood: infuriatedinfuriated
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Am I Pretty Now?  
11:10pm 25/05/2012

This finery is all a farce -

Strip them all bare!

Reveal the hideous grinning

visage beneath.

I am the monster you carved

out of your own flesh and blood,

the bone your ruthless strikes

pared down to the white marrow

over the years -

Am I pretty for you now?

I think I was born

to torment you; exact upon

the vengeance for a thousand tears

of people you so righteously

rent apart with your careless words

(Callously slashed  and stabbed like sieves

Tossed out your moving vehicle to the wayside);

The wounds you bought off

with your so-called great deeds.

All your insecure jealousies

and small-minded man’s dominance games

coalesced into something as venomous

as you; behind a youthful face

you were made to love -

or so I hear

since there are none those

who must learn to fear

you, as those who you “love”.

Destructive child, with a man’s

meaty fist and a sneering youth’s

whiplash tongue that rends

others' souls to tatters!

You lay that whip on none

more mercilessly than those

who dare to make you care.

And so you beat every redeeming trace

out of me, left only with

your own sneering grin

merciless whip-crack words,

drunk on self-loathing,

poisoned by your own intolerance

of shades of grey; mired

in your own self-absorption,

no compassion left to give

for anyone, least of all yourself.

I am a miniature concentration

of your own burning hell.

Do you like it, Father?

Am I pretty now?

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(no subject)  
12:20am 10/04/2011
It's of those days where you're just hanging on by the skin of your fingertips. Where you've been hanging from your fingertips for days and every muscle is screaming in protest and you feel like what you want more than anything is to let go and just stop the pain...but it's a long way down and you'll never be able to stop falling or crashing to earth and exploding into a million pieces on the ground.

But that's not what's scaring you. What's scaring you is that you might change your mind while you're mid-fall. Think that maybe you'd hung on a milisecond longer, someone would have saved you. That you might have time to watch that last spark of hope for your life and everything it could have been, just slip from your fingers and disappear into the lost expanse forever and realize you made the wrong choice.

You're afraid that, after the initial glorious relief from pain and the exhilaration of free fall that  you'll suddenly see the ground rushing up towards you and try futilely to slow down, to breathe one last gasp of air that'll never feel enough, to brace yourself against a final, crushing blow that can never be anticipated and a blackness that will never ever lift.

You're afraid of what may come after, whether there really will be a white light that will carry you upon an updraft to a heavenly judgment for your weakness, or whether you will become a spirit, an insubstantial whirl of memory and emotion imprinted permanently upon the world at the moment of your death, like a mere flash-photo capture of who you once were. You're afraid consciousness exists trapped in your bones long after your brain has rotted into the earth and you will spend centuries staring up at the lid of your coffin feeling yourself disintegrate.

You're afraid that you will be reborn to suffer again in a new, perhaps worse existence, doomed to obliviously repeat the same cycle of hope and fear and death until your soul-memory tires out and begs for a non-existence that will never come. You're afraid that the dead are not reborn and you will be forced to wander the world passively forever.

You're afraid that maybe there really is no such thing as a soul, and that the sum total of you is not a permanent imprint of merit and sin, emotion and thought but a disposable bundle of nerve-endings and neurons, chemicals and biological imperatives that is snuffed out forever like the light of a candlestick. That nothing you did or suffered ever mattered for more than a moment.

You're afraid that you'll always be equally afraid of both holding on and letting go, stuck in a torturous impasse.

The fear of life and fear of death. Equal and opposite forces that stretch you taught, keeping you in an eternal yet precarious stasis that leaves everything except your mind suspended in motion, leaving it to scream unheard into the void of inertia.

And I am so tired.
mood: draineddrained
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(no subject)  
12:24pm 26/12/2010

If I were a little bit braver

I’d open the door and run out

Of this moving, airtight car

Instead of beating my hands

Against the glass

As we drive around, and around

In circles

Breathing in the tinned air


If I were a little bit braver

I’d take a sharp little knife

And slash my arms from wrist

To shoulder, the red

Racing across my quailing

White fingers

Opening the gushing torrent

Of boiling blood

And let out the hate and tears

Wash my tender skin

Of all its grimy fear


If I were a little bit braver

I’d not just scream, but run

Run out, past the door

The gate, the lane,

Onto the mad traffic beyond

Cast myself on the mercy

Of some laughing god

And fly in abandon

Leaving the hounds snapping

At my heels, far,

Far behind

And not stop and falter

At stranger’s eyes raking

Over my wild guise

Silently judging my mother


If I were a little bit braver

I’d be asleep by now

No more nightmares

Outrunning ghosts of the selves

I’ve killed, chasing

Wisps of silver along

Labyrinth walls

Or buried alive under

A mound of smothering earth

As I beat my fists against the glass


If I were a little bit braver

The impurities of my thoughts

My skin, my bones and all

Would be flying carefree

Upon the wind

As powdered grey ashes

Nevermore to be caged

Nevermore to be me

Never to be sick again

If I were

A little bit


mood: sadsad
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(no subject)  
12:04pm 26/12/2010

After much thought and undeniable evidence, I have realized - I am in love with my depression.

Think about it. Why else would I be clinging so hard to an illness for years? Why would I always stop medication just as I'm getting better? WHy would I deliberately make a right pig's ear of my own life, if I didn't somehow get a kick out of being sick?

I enjoy this violence of emotion. The soaring highs of rage that rujevenates my blood and make me feel like I can topple the heaviest giant through the force of my reckless fury alone. The crushing sadness that inspires me to write and create, to weep words and drown it all in a giant vat of melodrama. How special it feels to be a tortured diva, because everyone knows that tortured assholes are usually geniuses, and I get to have all the attention and be the genius I KNOW I am by ranting and raving - without even having to put in the slow drudgery and determination of hard work that usually precedes success and recognition. And the inevitable hollowness and depression feels so like a unique clarity of vision not gifted to the saner mortals unfortunate enough to blinded by the fleeting highs they call happiness.

Seriously, being confronted with the ultimate futility and transience of existence is a gift! It is only we, lucky handful of tormented souls, who get to see the universe as it really is. How dare they call that a medical condition, these small-minded plodders who can't see beyond their little formulas and equations. Who think that they can draw a map of the universe with their painstaking tracing of cause and effect, trying to trace the stars with their painfully limited chalk outlines of rationality and empiricism! Poor fools, all killing time in their own self-important obsessions and seeking to medicate those ones who intuitively realise the truth, so that we the enlightened ones may be pitied as mental patients leaving the rest to distract themselves with their shiny new iPhones?

Don't you get it? We're SPECIAL! We're not mental patients. We're not sick. I'm not sick. I'm not sick. I'm not sick
mood: crazycrazy
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(no subject)  
09:46pm 26/02/2010
For the first time, I don't just want to stop living - I want to die.  

I feel like I'm already dead. I feel like I'm a sentient corpse and that I'm rotting away from the inside, painfully. Several times I've physically keeled over from the pain of it. It's a phantom pain that encompasses everything and nothing all at once, in waves, and leaves me out of breath from fear and agony. I can't think anymore. I feel strange. I don't feel much..kind of detached....I can tell that I'm scared shitless and tired and lost but it's like their not really my own emotions...like they're happening to someone else. 

I can barely type...my fingers feel too heavy. All I want to do is to stop propping myself up and let myself slide to the floor and then sink underneath it, deep into the ground and stop breathing....let the nightmares disappear...no more pain...just stop thinking, caring, existing...

I long for that. Just that. So tired of the pain. So tired. Feel panicked at the thought of waking up to tomorow nd the next day and endless day and nights of this...I don't have the energy anymore to do it, please just want to rest. How can this not be hell? 

I can end it. There's a medicine cabinet full of Mum's blood pressure pills and sedatives and painkillers. A cocktail of a card of tablets is sure to kill me. All I need to do is go downstairs, take them out and wash them down with water. I love water. I drink bottles and bottles because the anti-deps make my mouth so dry...I'm always so thirsty. 

I feel strange. Those pills look so welcoming now. I don't feel afraid of taking them..just a little hesitant. And that's nothing compared to the panic and pain that grips me when I think about waking up tomorrow. Dear God, I don't want to wake up again. Please. I think even I don't take those pills tonight I won't get up again. I feel so detached....maybe I can lie in bed and go somewhere else where I never have to come back to my body. But what if I do? What if they make me come back by screaming at me and crying and beating me until the pain makes me come back? 

I don't want that. I have to end it tonight. 

But I shouldn't. Because it's wrong. Isn't it? 

How could that be wrong? There's no fucking point to life in the first place; people just keep on living even when they can't find the first logical reason to go on in this hellhole just because we're all good little sheep and living's what we're programmed to do. There's no evi in death..only life. I really feel as though giving birth and holding a person back from ending their life is the most sinful thing anyone could really do, if you think about it. What kind of deluded fucker with the least bowels of compassion would bring another human being into this unreasoning mess? What fucking point is there in sticking around till your body degenerates into dust and everyone forgets you ever existed in a few decades? 

I don't know. There's no one else left to call, to help me. I called Pavi just now. She said that I'm not gonna die and I should just keep fighting, fuck reasons. But...I don't think I can. Not without a reason. None of them can be objective about this anyway. They all think that dying is bad and living is good, even though they can't find a single logical reason in favor of that argument. And yet they treat it like the fucking Gospel. 

Yeah, they'll e sad if I die...but they'll die too, soon enough. Everybody dies. What's the big deal about fast-forwarding it a little bit? People should be free to choose, right? If we're free to live, we should also be free to die. 

I don't know. I think I might fast forward my life tonight. But all I know is, whether I'm alive tomorrow morning or not, I'll be at peace with the choice I make. 

I think. 

In case I don't make it - Goodbye, everyone. I love you. Be well. 
mood: exhaustedexhausted
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(no subject)  
07:20pm 19/02/2010
a bit hysterical todayCollapse )
mood: draineddrained
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(no subject)  
01:04pm 16/02/2010

Eight more pills to go before I gotta renew my Zoloft prescription. Then it's another two months of pills before I can finally stop them. Meanwhile, I shake day in and day out with tremors. My tongue's numb, I have nausea and recurring "irritable bowel syndrome" and my mind is all over the fucking place like an ADHD bunny on LSD. My eyes are twitching. I can't concentrate on anything - books, movies, fanfic, internet articles. And I can't fucking stop the drugs like I did all the other times, because I need to keep taking them for at least 3 months, otherwise I'll be back in this fucking head-space again 3 times a year. Yeah, so the side-effects have got better, but they never just go away

*sigh* Oh well. 8 more days. And another 60 more. Meanwhile...

Shake, shake, shake, senora, shake your body line! 
mood: aggravatedaggravated
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Where I am and what I want.  
07:02pm 15/02/2010
 I need my life back. Scratch that. I need to start forming a new life. There’s no going back to my old one, such as I remember it, even if I wanted to. Which I don’t. The person I am hates the person I was. I don’t know who I am yet, but I do know that much. I’m a bitch who makes no apologies for being who I am. 

I’m done trying to live up to what other people expect of me. I’m done trying to be perfect. I’m done being driven by the fear of being alone, of being unaccepted, of being defeated. I don’t fear being alone – I realize that everyone is alone, in their own way. I fear loneliness less than I fear being smothered amongst crowds of people I don’t care for. I’m used to being solitary, an objective observer of people, a detached entity without yearning to be part of the group. As such, I don’t fear being unaccepted. They can like me or lump me. I have no illusions that this is a particularly mature response to the world, but fuck maturity. I’ll either achieve it eventually or I won’t. 

As for being defeated – I already am. I have been defeated for a whole year, held in an invisible chokehold by a nameless, faceless dread that a better person might have been able to beat by now. I have no job, no friends, no prospects, no degree. THIS is rock-bottom, ladies and gents, and if my parents weren’t around to feed and shelter me, I’d be practically subterranean. That’s another thing I need to fix by the way – the notion that it is my parents’ job to look after me. The warranty on that expired the day I turned 21, even if nobody acknowledged it. Scorn collectivist cultures all you want, you can’t beat the integrated welfare system. 

So where do I go from here? I need to stop worrying about the bigger picture, for a start. It’s not what I want to do, it’s about how I want to do it. I need more self-discipline, steadier staying power and above all, I need to learn to take pride in my achievements. I need to unlearn that gut instinct that tells me it’s wrong to be proud of something I have done; that points to minute mistakes and lapses and skews them out of proportion so that it distorts my successes into gaping failures. I need to respect my limits even as I scale them back.

I need to learn humility. To put myself and my problems in perspective; in context of the world at large and my place in it, without lashing out at random in wounded pride and self-loathing. 
mood: determined
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June 2012  

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