Inthedarkness
New member
I’ve never posted about this before, because it’s so hard to explain and I don’t know if it’s depression or something else, or maybe it’s just normal…I don’t even know anymore.
It’s such an effort getting up in the mornings because my first thought is that today will be the same as yesterday and no doubt tomorrow will be the same again. Everything looks a bit different to how it used to…maybe…not as colourful, things are just there and I really don’t care that they’re there. I find it so hard to hear what people are saying because everything sounds quieter than normal, well … I can hear that people are talking to me but my brain isn’t really listening. I don’t really notice what’s going on outside my head and there isn’t really that much going on inside my head…it’s just nothing. I feel nothing.
But I do I hate everything. And not even for a good reason, I just hate it because it makes me angry. And everything makes me angry so I hate everything. But I hate myself more than anything else. I’m so whiny and controlling. I think I think I’m so great and amazing, but really I’m just a loser who can’t do anything right. I ignore those irritating charity people on the streets, which effectively means I’m just ignoring charity. I walked past a kid who was lost the other day, I should have helped him but I didn’t. I am a bad, bad person. I tell myself I hate myself. I actually say ‘I hate you’ to myself. It’s like having a bully attached to my brain constantly. I hear whispers sometimes at night. They say ‘he’s there’. That, of course, immediately steps me up to the level of ‘actual crazy person’ as opposed to ‘someone who’s a little bit sad’, but I thought it might be relevant to something, or not.
I think about suicide a lot. I don’t want to kill myself, but most of the time I really wouldn’t mind dying. I think I wish I’d never been born in the first place then I wouldn’t have to do any of this living malarky. I self-harm. I cut my arms, but not because I want people to notice and ask. Well actually I do want people to notice and ask, but when they do ask I lie about what the scars are. And they are crap lies, not remotely believable, but I can’t really be bothered to be creative anymore. I hate it when people see them, it makes me feel ill and it makes me hate myself even more.
Nobody knows me really. It’s so easy just to smile and make a few happy jokes and laugh a bit. My mum died when I was a kid, and my dad never listened to me, so now I don’t tell anyone anything…ever. I have friends and I consider them to be close friends, I’ve tried to hint to them…but they just end up talking about how horrible their lives are and how ‘depressed’ they are because their boyfriends are a 30 minute train ride away. So I listen, and give bits of advice with a spattering of humour to keep spirits up; then I go home, lock myself in my room, hate myself a bit then go to bed. I felt like this about 3 years ago, I honestly believed I wouldn’t make it to 18. And now it’s back, but it’s different, it’s more hate filled.
I’m weak and I can’t even tell people how much everything hurts and how intense the pain is. I don’t deserve anything. I have to resort to writing about myself in a horribly egotistical fashion on the internet to a bunch of strangers (no offence, I'm sure you're all lovely really). How cool am I.
It’s such an effort getting up in the mornings because my first thought is that today will be the same as yesterday and no doubt tomorrow will be the same again. Everything looks a bit different to how it used to…maybe…not as colourful, things are just there and I really don’t care that they’re there. I find it so hard to hear what people are saying because everything sounds quieter than normal, well … I can hear that people are talking to me but my brain isn’t really listening. I don’t really notice what’s going on outside my head and there isn’t really that much going on inside my head…it’s just nothing. I feel nothing.
But I do I hate everything. And not even for a good reason, I just hate it because it makes me angry. And everything makes me angry so I hate everything. But I hate myself more than anything else. I’m so whiny and controlling. I think I think I’m so great and amazing, but really I’m just a loser who can’t do anything right. I ignore those irritating charity people on the streets, which effectively means I’m just ignoring charity. I walked past a kid who was lost the other day, I should have helped him but I didn’t. I am a bad, bad person. I tell myself I hate myself. I actually say ‘I hate you’ to myself. It’s like having a bully attached to my brain constantly. I hear whispers sometimes at night. They say ‘he’s there’. That, of course, immediately steps me up to the level of ‘actual crazy person’ as opposed to ‘someone who’s a little bit sad’, but I thought it might be relevant to something, or not.
I think about suicide a lot. I don’t want to kill myself, but most of the time I really wouldn’t mind dying. I think I wish I’d never been born in the first place then I wouldn’t have to do any of this living malarky. I self-harm. I cut my arms, but not because I want people to notice and ask. Well actually I do want people to notice and ask, but when they do ask I lie about what the scars are. And they are crap lies, not remotely believable, but I can’t really be bothered to be creative anymore. I hate it when people see them, it makes me feel ill and it makes me hate myself even more.
Nobody knows me really. It’s so easy just to smile and make a few happy jokes and laugh a bit. My mum died when I was a kid, and my dad never listened to me, so now I don’t tell anyone anything…ever. I have friends and I consider them to be close friends, I’ve tried to hint to them…but they just end up talking about how horrible their lives are and how ‘depressed’ they are because their boyfriends are a 30 minute train ride away. So I listen, and give bits of advice with a spattering of humour to keep spirits up; then I go home, lock myself in my room, hate myself a bit then go to bed. I felt like this about 3 years ago, I honestly believed I wouldn’t make it to 18. And now it’s back, but it’s different, it’s more hate filled.
I’m weak and I can’t even tell people how much everything hurts and how intense the pain is. I don’t deserve anything. I have to resort to writing about myself in a horribly egotistical fashion on the internet to a bunch of strangers (no offence, I'm sure you're all lovely really). How cool am I.
