It feels like my life is stuck in cycles.
Classes, lunch, classes, home, homework, meds, sleep. Repeat.
Cut, burn, heal, scar. Repeat.
Starve, vomit, give up, eat. Repeat.
School, summer, school. Repeat.
Feel good, feel shitty, feel numb. Repeat.
And it never
Maybe that’s why I don’t feel like living. It’s boring. It’s repetitive. And I’m trapped in my own body, in my own home, trying to get out and live a good fulfilling life but I’m stuck. And I’m scared that one day I’ll do a little less of not-feeling-like-living and a little more of feeling-like-fucking-dying and I’ll kill myself.
My parents think I cut and burn and talk about suicide to manipulate other people. I guess I do, if they say so. I don’t mean to, anyway, but I end up doing that anyway I suppose. Maybe that’s why I’ve always been so alone through it all. People don’t want to get involved and feel guilty about me and the stupid shit I do. I know I make certain people feel horrible when I wear shorts and they can see the white and pink lines strewn all across my thighs from the razor in December and I know it’s bad, but I don’t really care. I almost forget at times about the red burn marks scattered on my right forearm, even though the pain felt very real at the time. I hope other people do, but maybe I’m not so lucky.