This is Exhausting (2)

Showering.

First off, I have to get out of bed. That's hard enough. Then, I have to get undressed, turn on the water, and get it.

The hard stuff is over. 

I can't just sit on the ground and let the water run over me. I should wash my hair. I should clean my cuts. I should wash my face. God damn, I should shave. I haven't shaved in over two months. It isn't even Autumn yet.

So I'll try.

I might wash my hair, but I won't use conditioner. And when I get out of the shower, I won't dry it. I'll throw it up into a bun. A stupid bun that I don't even need to look at to know how it looks.

I will clean my cuts. Face it, if those fuckers get infected, I'll have to go to the doctor and get help. I'd rather spend the (relatively small amount of) energy to clean them rather than the (large amount of) energy to drive to the doctor.

I might wash my face. But if I do, it's from leftover soap from cleaning my cuts.

I definitely won't shave. I've spent all the energy I can on this shower already. Maybe later. Maybe I'll shave tomorrow.

After some time, the shower will start to get cold. But I won't get out yet. I'll turn up the water as much as I can. I'll wait until the water is truly running cold. Then I'll get out of the shower. I'll throw a towel around me and put my hair in a towel.

I'll think about getting dressed. But in the end, I'll just sit on my bed, waiting for the energy to come back.

If it's a school day, I'll wait until the last possible second to get ready. I'm being as serious as I can when I say that I will get ready five minutes before my class starts. I'll end up being a few minutes late. But at least I got some energy to get up and moving.

At least I'm trying.

A Letter to my Dad

There was one day, right after you found out about my depression, and we were talking. And you said, "Pretending is how you know you're getting better." Like because I am pretending, it means I am getting better. I didn't know how to tell you this, but you are wrong. Pretending, and having that vision of me break down, is how I knew that I was getting worse.

I told you it was getting worse, hoping that you would ask more questions. But you didn't. I would have told you then and there everything, had you just asked.

I would have told you that I am suicidal.
I would have told you that I am cutting.
I would have told you that I hate myself.
I would have told you that I can't keep myself together.
I would have told you everything.
But you didn't ask.

I don't blame you though. You didn't ask because you didn't know that you needed to ask. It's because I never really gave you a reason to ask.

Through my entire life, I've been hiding from you. I've been hiding how I really feel from you. Which is funny, because that means that I have been hiding nothing. When you feel nothing, I guess you really just hide... nothing.

I am sorry that I never told you. I'm sorry that I never gave you a reason to ask. I'm sorry I'm not the daughter you want me to be. I'm sorry I'm not the daughter that I want to be.

I'm sorry.

A Letter to my Mom

I wish I could tell you everything.

I wish I could tell you how long I've felt this way. The years of self hatred, depression, wanting to disappear.

I don't like to lie to you. I never have. What is terrible about this feeling is knowing that I have been lying to you for almost 20 years.

I've tried to stay strong. For you. For my siblings. They always needed you more than I did. Or at least, that is what I told myself. So I never told you.

I want to tell you now. I want to tell you that I have wanted to disappear for years. That my depression is worse than you know. That I truly hate myself. That I can't look at myself in the mirror. That I cut myself because it helps. That some days, I really do want to die.

I want to tell you that I need you. I need you to help me. I need you to put me back together, or else, hand me the pieces that I have dropped so that I can put myself back together. I am breaking up and you don't even know. Please see.

Please, look at me. Ask me if I am okay. Because I am not. Ask me if I am happy. Because I am not.

Tell me you love me, even though I won't believe you. It will make it harder to kill myself. So tell me you love me.

And remember, through it all,

I love you.

And I am sorry I have hurt myself and hurt you in the process.

An Experiment in Reparenting

The first time I went to the therapist, I was telling him about my family. One day, I might go into it a little bit more with you... we'll see. But basically, when you are a child and growing up, you're parents are supposed to be there to say things like, "Good job" and "You're so smart!" It's an important part of a child's growth.

Sometimes though, parent's just... don't. There are many reasons for this. The reasons my parents probably did, it that they were kind of busy taking care of two babies to pay attention to their two/three year old daughter. And as I grew up, they always had to take care of the youngest first, I came last.

So my therapist has wanted me to try and do some self-reparenting. Where I reinforce the positive aspects of myself and what I do. Let me just say, that when you hate yourself, this is really hard. I rely on my friends for a lot of the reparenting. I say things like, "I'm smart... Right?" and look at them. And they smile and say "Yes, of course." Then I nod my head and try to believe them. It's more than smarts. It's everything. Pretty, funny, likable, having friends, etc.

It's hard to tell myself that I am pretty when I can't even look into a mirror.
It's hard to tell myself that I am funny when it feels like people hate me.
... You get the idea.

So I try. I try to tell myself that I am smart, pretty, good... But mainly I rely on my friends to confirm this. My hope right now is that maybe if they tell me yes enough, one day I will believe it.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reparenting

A Letter to the Monster Inside

I fucking hate you.

I hate how you make me feel.
I hate how you make me hate myself.
I hate how you make me want to die.

You make me so tired. You make it hard to get out of bed. Hard to take a shower. Hard to wash my hair. Hard to clean my cuts. Hard to take care of myself.

I want to be happy. I want to smile, and believe it. I want to be happy when people tell me I look nice. I want to not hate myself.

I want you to leave.

You are the monster inside of me.

Or am I the monster inside of you?

This is Exhausting (1)

The other day, I had a burst of energy. Good for me. I don't get them very often. So when I do, I try and do something. Something that is hard, but that I really need to do.

This day, I decided to make a note card for an upcoming math test. It took maybe 30 minutes. It looks pretty damn good bytheway. (Go for reparenting! What's reparenting? I'll tell you later, pinky promise.)

So after 30 minutes, I was done with the note card. I was exhausted. I stayed in bed for another six hours. Not moving. Just listening to music.

Meme-Me (1)

Sorry I'm not Good Enough

I don't know if that is the actual name of this drawing, but where I found it is on the caption.

http://eattentiondeficitdisorder.tumblr.com/post/27519045374

I've said this to people before. I've told people that I am so sorry. Sorry that I'm fat, annoying, not funny, cut, hate myself. Everything. And every time I do, they tell me how wrong I am... I don't believe them. That's why I rely on them so much. Maybe their love for me can rub off. 

It's Hard to Keep a Secret...

When it's written all over your body.

http://gangstercupcakeprincessautumn.tumblr.com/post/31580460415

And it is. You have to cover the secret. With long pants and long sleeves. Bracelets and watches. No off the shoulder shirts, that might show too much. And after really bad days, sometimes I have to hide the gauze bracelet. I don't want to hide. I want to be able to wear tank tops again. But I know that if I don't hide then people will say I do it for attention. If I did it for attention I wouldn't be hiding it.