Two years ago next week I attempted to take my life for the first time. I was so sick and didn’t see the way out, there was no light, no help, no good in my life, no end to this.
A year ago I was deep into regular manic and depressive episodes, medicated on antipsychotics and antidepressants, had taken time out of education and had been self harming regularly for years.
Today I’m sitting in my room, out of the domestic abusive household I spent 17 years growing up in, singing to the wriggling little baby in my belly and getting ready to go to my forever dream job in the morning.
Im still medicated, facing a bipolar 2 or eupd/bpd diagnosis, having weekly trauma psychotherapy sessions and have scars that will never heal fully. Doesn’t mean i’m not living my dream life.
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The worst type of heartbreak, the one that cuts the deepest, the one that abolishes any chance of love ever again, the one that leaves a girl broken to a point of no fixing.
Heartbreak from a parent.
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some people are so fucking selfish it kills me
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not good enough for him,
not good enough for them,
not good enough for me,
not good enough for anyone.
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The worst part of an attempt is the look in their eyes when they see the open wound-
the panic, the anger, the despair, the hurt, the ‘not again’.
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God there’s so much pain.
So much pain and it’s not going.
So much pain I don’t know what to do with it.
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The pain doesn’t stop.
Not for christmas,
Not for new year’s,
Not for birthdays, or saturday nights with friends, or weekends, or weddings, monday mornings with the person you wake up with, or sunsets, or reunions with the people you love.
It’s there.
Always.
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i am empty, every memory, every thought
poured out over the sink in shades of red
crimson minuets, maroon hours, scarlet days
trauma. trauma. trauma.
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I am hurting so bad and none of you can see. My wrists ache, arms sting and head clouded. Every sentence is a struggle, every minute awake, every question. It’s gone on so long that the concerned looks have disappeared.
‘Oh …. that’s just the way she is. She’s fine.’
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The sickest part of being mentally ill-
sitting in a room of people you love holding it together, pretending that every inch of your body isn’t crumbling into dust.
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One of the worst parts of self harm and suicidal ideation is when you’re sitting next to someone you love so much and all you can think about is how badly you want things to end.
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