Endless writing

My mind is so all over the place and at the same time.. I feel nothing, so that makes me not want to write or feel like what I write just doesn’t makes sense.

When I hear music it triggers a thought and a numb, far away feeling. Then I have another thought about a totally different subject, giving me another feeling under a cloud of numbness.. and that just goes on changing so fast that I don’t know where to start if I would write something. So I just started here.. see where it will go.

I’ve remembered writing poetry, that’s how I teached myself the English language. It’s not because I was at school so often.. Had learned to copy my moms signature and back in the days you still had to fill in a hand written paper to let the school know you’re absent. One year I’ve been absent for over a 100 to 150 hours. Somehow I got away with everything. After the devorce of my parents I got away with everything I ever did. Makes me wonder if anyone cared. They said I was unmanageable. A loose cannon. Perhaps it’s because they never, seriously tried to stop me. It’s a way of neglecting your child because without rules, without punishment there is no structure, there are no boundaries. There is no safety. So I went from over protection, a strict controlled environment to absolute freedom. Sure I am the problem. I have never learned to protect myself nor control myself, you did that for me. Now I’m lost, now I am a problem.

A few years ago I still had a hand written bundle of my own poems that I had written over the years. Someone I trusted during one of my obsessive phases told me to burn it. So I burned my own poetry, a complete bundle of about a 100 poems. Yes, most of them were very depressing.. but some of them were about subjects like Vincent van Gogh and the Columbine shootings. Which could’ve been interesting to read now too. She told me to burn my past and I did. Burned most of my drawings and all my old photo’s from when I still had a death hawk, when I was still such a rebel. The loose cannon. I haven’t got any photo’s left from some parts of my life.. also the time when I was anorexic. All these periods just didn’t seem to have happened. Just all gone, like it was nothing more than a dream. No trace left of it. Which makes me wonder at times, did it really happen? Which really helps when I go through phases of denial and ‘forget’ my past and declare myself sane, as if I never were borderline. Telling myself that it was just puberty or something like that. Or that I miraculously got better over night, free of symptoms and all that. Later on I learned that the woman who told me to get rid of my dark past was more insane than I am. You never know if what you made during dark times can be of value to you in the future and I don’t mean financial value. What if all the great artist, who made music, art, poetry or whatever they needed to do to go through difficult times.. would have destroyed their creations. Would we even have something left? The art of van Gogh wasn’t appreciated when he was still alive but how much is his art loved and appreciated now? I could write poetry again but I can never read again the poetry I wrote when I was thirteen, depressed, lost and fucking helpless because it’s burned, lost and forgotten. It’s easy not to validate my past and feel disconnected from my it.

I used to listen to Evanescence when I was 12 to 14 mostly. Had rewritten all the lyrics in Dutch so I really could understand what the songs were about. My mom took the cd from me because she thought that it made me depressed but actually this music has helped me survive the depression I was going through. Music will never leave me. It’s something as stupid as taking every sharp object away from me.. don’t convince yourself that it will help in any way. I’m creative enough. What are you going to do, take away walls, drugs, pills, my bicycle, fire, water, rope, the world? Put me in a straight jacket in a padded cell.. sounds kinda hot to me. My numb, disconnected emptiness is like that. A mental straight jacket in a padded cell. Nothing sexy about that. It just means that you have no life left to live.

Personaly I experience more of a holding it all in kind of borderline. This I learned to do over time, so I know what the alternative is. This comes with extreme control over my emotions that I guess I’m afraid of because emotions are so overwhelming. Or I do not feel allowed to express my feelings nor feel safe enough to express them. Either because people jump on me with all their care projecting their fears on me and making me soothe their emotions.. or I just get zero validation and also have to deal with the projection and change myself to soothe the other, yet again. Meet my parents.. Also I numb the fuck out because I can feel so out of control when I’m in touch with my feelings, I’m afraid of being abandoned because of my intense reactions. So now they are suppressed, switched off and I can’t seem to turn them back on.

So mostly I don’t feel emotions, I feel empty inside, always slightly depressed – to really depressed. To let out some of my emotions I often break into different “identities” which allow me to feel something and express myself. Maybe because I’m scared and don’t know any other way to be nor express myself. I need the help of a bit of dissociation. At all times.

On the other hand I can use an identity to completely lose contact with myself and my emotions, limits etc. to run away out of fear, under severe stress in an extreme attempt to maintain control. Usually I’ve lost insight in my disorder or feel like I’ve never been borderline. While doing a lot of self destructive things without acknowledging these things are self damaging.

The switch is either ON or off with nothing in between. No control. All the control. Nothing. EVERYTHING.

The school years ..

Sometimes I wonder if the people who bullied me for years are as fucked up as I am. Were they bullied themselves? I wonder if they ever wondered what the effect of their actions was. What I remember is just not responding. I remember the stories they made up about me. What they used to say. It’s the way I talk to myself now in my head. I can’t seem to stop the bullying. They way they played tricks on me, is how I still treat myself. I remember feeling like I didn’t matter at all when I was at home, then going to school and feeling a total outsider there as well.

When I went to highschool I got severly depressed, for years. On saturday I started to become restless already because I had to go to school on monday. On sunday I was often really sick. Until the day came that I was cycling to school, ended up crying in front of other kids and went back home. That happened a few times so my parents would cycle to school with me, it was so embarrasing. Then when I was at school I got bullied, then back at home I didn’t say anything about it because that was shamefull as well. Whenever possible I would go into the woods next to the school by myself, just walking there to be alone. Away from people. And I would sing my favorite Evanescence songs to the trees. At times I would cut myself for a moment of relieve. Now I wonder, has anything really changed since then? Instead of a forrest, I now have my own home where I hide from the world. Alone with my plants, that at times I still sing the same songs to. Wanting to cut myself but knowing that this won’t help at all. So I shut down my feelings, I don’t need pain anymore to do that now. I’m dead inside already. A dissociation lost in time.

Maybe writing is like that to me as well, I don’t care or think of who will see these. Just send them out into the universe. Like when I sang to the trees.

During highschool, especially the early years. People who I thought were friends tricked me, turned against me. The alternative people backstabbed me even more than the popular bullies. At least from them I saw it coming. Or I had friends leaving me because they saw how much I was bullied and didn’t want to end up being bullied too. All of a sudden they were dressing like the cool kids and stayed away from me. Being alone was easier, you cannot be abandomed when you are alone. Now I abandom myself first before anyone else can.

Self harming was the only thing that gave me some relieve. Now I try not to do that anymore. At times recovery can feel like not being allowed to do fucking anything.

Staying inside so I’m not triggered makes me feel like I’m dead already. Also makes me feel guilty, like.. “you got a life to live”, “go do something”, “go play outside, you’re doing nothing”.. Actually I was doing something but okay, guess it wasn’t what you had in mind.. Not that I have the energy now to live or do much more than nothing.

Can I just go wild sometime.. do something destructive, just because it feels good. For a moment, out of this tormenting, boring, emptiness. Lifelessness. Drinking from the bottle, taking the happy pills, smoking the sigaret, blowing the snow, fucking the stranger. Feeling the freedom of living without roots. Not knowing where I’ll end up tonight. Living like there is no tomorrow.. Like I used to after the highschool depression.. Before the eternal dead inside me that I feel when I try to fucking recover..

I sleep in now whenever I can, to shorten the days. When I’m awake my thought take me over. There are no feelings. I’m alone and I find myself waiting for my fp to come back. Forgetting to eat, without the energy to live my life and do anything. I don’t feel like seeing anyone and dream of my forrest when I sing my songs. When I don’t feel, that includes not feeling the fear of being abandoned. If I wake myself up from this numbness, will I actively dissociate and go back to self destruction? Will I grow a new obsession, to destract myself from feeling?

And then I’m still fighting inside about wether or not I am worse enough to deserve therapy. Not validating myself like you did before me. If I start therapy now.. I will have to face my feelings. Will I be confronted with how bad it actually is? What if I relapse. What if. What if I actually end up feeling again.

My environment is prettier now, because of social security I live safely in this beautiful cage. Where I indulge myself with doing nothing. Sitting out my days. Lying to myself. Living in a dream world. All more of the same. I’m still haunted by my memories. Forever stuck in a past, that I am slowly starting to forget. What is left then? I’m not going out to avoid triggers, I’m avoiding contact too. My body remembers my past better than I do. Reacting with fear when there is no reason to.

I went away from my parents, away from school, anywhere. Just away from all the angry people. Just letting the drugs take me away. Knock myself out to get through the day. To feel a sense of unreal happiness. To remember what that feels like. So I didn’t feel dead inside for a moment but experience a rush of excitement, to feel alive. Away from my family. They left me alone anyway. Perhaps I hoped they would come to take me home but they never did. Then I just knew the dark thoughts I had were true. I took the pills and dreamed of trees.

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