Just Another Cry for Help

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic
I suffer from major depressive disorder and borderline personality disorder. Merely a couple of my thoughts from the end of senior year until the present. Doesn't matter who reads it. I just needed someone to hear me. Still in progress.

Submitted: November 19, 2011

A A A | A A A

Submitted: November 19, 2011



I am on the verge of a break down. My mind is chaos. My thoughts are thoughtless. My skin is a cage. I need blades to set me free. I can feel my mind collapsing into itself; giving up. There is not much left. Left alone I'm done for. I am done. I am alone.


I am on the verge of a breakdown. Let it come.


I imagine my brain is this amoeba swimming around inside my head. Only it has this big expanse to travel in. More like an infinite space, because my amoeba brain imagines space for itself to swim in. When I'm swimming, things are smoother.


When I have to do work, I can't concentrate on swimming. That's when things grow from the amoeba. They attach to the walls and suspend it there. It stays there pulsing, pulsing, and the pulsing gets really loud until I can't hear my work and then I get frustrated.


I picture myself throwing my desk across the room.

I picture myself throwing my desk across the room.

I picture myself throwing my desk across the room.
That would feel nice.


Instead I just feel burning.


I imagine wrapping my brain in a towel and carrying it home like a sick puppy. I image it starting to unravel inside the towel. Finally all I'm holding is one of those stretchy exercise tubes that you can just chew and chew and chew. But you're not supposed to.


I like to think that if you got a whole bunch of amoebas together they could swim freely but I know they'd strangle each other and die.


It's the last day before final exams and the librarian still hasn't given up. I imagine her world as red. Deep red, but it cools down with less noise. Maybe if she could just get the library quiet enough the world would go blue. Maybe if everything was quiet, things would be ok. But right now everything is hot and angry and people need to leave to make more space for the silence. Still, it's not enough.


I'm sitting in class again. Sometimes it even becomes hard to focus on my own boredom. I get lost and I am frustrated again. I get tired of drawing people committing suicide. I draw figure 8s to stay awake. They drift off every once in a while as I do.


Everything passes in a blur. Senior year is over. Things look like they will be ok. I take on a job. Canvassing. The world is dark. People take their anger out on me. People slam their doors in my face. People don't want to help. People are awful and hateful. I cry twice. I am weak. I grow stronger. I laugh at their anger later. I ooze kindness in their presence. I hope to make them feel terrible for how they treat me. Sometimes I encounter someone who is kind. Most of the time I don't.


I quit a week earlier than I said I would leave. I let everything go and I enjoy the summertime. I'm not going to school. I can't take the academic world again. Not so soon. Then everyone is leaving. The people I'm close to. Some are still around. I don't see them much. They're all in school.


I get a job. It's ok. It's not great. I get another job. It's a lot better. But something is wrong with me and I'm scared how I will handle it.

I'm not sure who to talk to.

I have no one I can call for help when my breathing gets shaky and I start to cry. There's no reason to it, I'm just scared and in pain. I have no one to turn to, no one to call, no one to help me. Don't know who would understand. I am not self sufficient, my systems are failing. I am a robot, slave to routine. I'm not programmed to be alone, not able to self repair. Let me break and rust.

The dead survive alone
It is the living who suffer.


I sit alone in my room and curl up on my bed. If I could get small enough I would be gone. If I could shut down everything would be ok.


"It'll be ok"


Those words only hurt. There's no need to lie.


Sometimes I feel it in the back seat, watching me. I have to keep turning to check, but each time it is empty.


I think about the future a lot. I don't need to, but I do. And it makes me scared. I want to stop but I'm not sure how. Sometimes I think I could get surgery to sever the ties holding down the amoeba in my brain. Then I wouldn't be stuck on the thoughts that hurt me. Then I could swim freely into infinite space.


Every time I feel this way, I think back to how good it felt when the blades would scratch my skin. I didn't need to cut deep. I just needed to draw blood. It was distracting. It was euphoric at times. But then I think about the time I cut deeper. Because I was upset. Because I felt like a coward for the shallow little cuts I made. And I can still feel the way it dragged through my skin, and the imagined sound it made. It made no sound, but the way it felt is a sound. It echoes in my head and I want to get rid of my arm to make the sound go away. But I can't so I wait for it to subside.


I'm sure I'll start cutting again soon. It's a cycle I know all too well. I start with shallow cuts. I get angrier, braver, they get deeper. I need more. I cut more. It feels better every time. It becomes my solution. It relieves my pain. It frees up my thoughts and I can breathe again. Then the time comes when I get too angry, too upset. I cut too deep. Be it accident or on purpose. A visit to the hospital. I am fine. I follow up with my psychiatrist, my therapist. I am scared. I stop.


I want to begin the cycle again. I feel like I have more control this time. I don't want to cut deep. It scares me. I probably don't have as much control as I think  I do. I probably don't have any more control than the last two times. But let me say that I do, let me think that I do. It won't hurt me. I swear. It will feel good.


How many people would it hurt? Who has to know? It's winter. Season of long sleeves and sweaters. Only one person will know. The person it will hurt most. The person who will feel helpless because they can't stop me. The person I care about most. I would hide it but I can't. I'm bad with secrets, especially my own.


Still, I crave the long, red lines I paint along my skin. The freedom I feel from my worries. I don't need anyone else. I don't need help.


To cut oneself is to harm the body, but soothe the soul.

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