Fine lines.

Creditors. Bills. Debts. Phone calls. Demand letters. Insanity. All life is is paying bills, then you’re dead. Get a good job to pay the bills, die. Get a good education, be in debt and pay THOSE bills accumulated from educating, have a career to pay more bills. Dead.

All I can think about today is inflicting pain to shut it all off. Slicing lines into my body and watching the blood bead and then drip lines across my skin. I made one important phone call, which is really rather impressive for me, and the rest of today I’ve been paralyzed with thoughts of how much I hate myself. I hate myself. I hate myself. I HATE MYSELF.

(That’s not me. But it’s beautiful, in the sense that I get it. It makes me feel less alone, which is calming. Beautiful.)

This world is nothing. It’s completely pointless. Living is a joke. Even if you have the most noble of jobs/careers, and I would consider that to be working in a field where you’re helping others, such as a nurse or a psychologist or social worker, all you’re really doing is helping people be healthy, well enough, stable enough to be able to make money and pay bills. Life is fucking pointless.

I don’t want to die. Don’t worry. Am I suicidal? Yes definitely. But that’s a mood. An emotion. A state. It’s not a decision. I wish people understood that. When things in my mind get this bad, the only thing keeping me afloat is my kids. It used to have nothing to do with my love for them, and everything to do with their love for me. Now it includes my love for them. That’s the progress in my mental health I suppose. Love is a thing. Some people would say it gives life meaning, and with my children, it does. Sort of. For me, it makes leaving this life an impossibility. An unavailable option. Does it give life meaning though? You die. I die. They die. We all die. We take nothing. We leave everything. Love, people, the money-monsters, rad shoes, your education. Everything. You may have left a legacy, or money, for your children and their children, but for what? So they have a part of you that they too will leave behind when their time comes? 

I hate this. Does self-harm help or solve any of this bullshit nihilism? Or course not. Does it make life worth living or give me purpose? No. Will it make my debts go away? No. Will it help me get into school? Will it help me figure out how I’m going to do it financially? Will it make me less worthless, less hopeless, less pathetic, less of a stain, less of a mistake, less of a burden, less of a drain on everyone around me? No. That’s probably why it’s 3:38pm and my skin is still fully intact. I can reason myself out of it. I’m just not sure how long I can do that for. I’m drowning today. It won’t solve my life, but it will satisfy the monster for today. Maybe for the next few days. And then…. reality.


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