They call it depression. I call it war. 

They call it depression. I call it war. But it’s a war I seem to be loosing. 

The bullets being fired are my own thoughts, sinking themselves into my flesh. 

The swords being plunged into me are my own blades which I chose to draw across skin. 

The punches being thrown are punched my liver is taking from the bottles of alcohol. 

Battle cries are my lungs begging for air as I inhaile tar through a cigarette. 11 minutes less life? Bring it on. 

I’ve done everything to stop the enemy getting to me in the last few years but they seem to be growing stronger everyday. 

It’s powerful. I’ve even turned against myself. But that’s the thing.. I’m at war with myself. 

When people say mental illnesses are a constant battle, they’re not making it up. Yes some days maybe an easier fight but it is a fight none the less. 

I fight to get out of bed. I fight the tears. I fight back feelings of self hatred.

My brain is at war with my body, my body is at war with my brain and I have no idea what to do. 

The good people of this world

It’s getting worse. So much worse. I love how I started this blog as a marker in a massive leap in my recovery and now I’m nearly as depressed as I was 3 years ago. 

My arm is scattered with fresh wounds and healing scabs. The backs of my hands are covered with cigarette burns. The scales show dropping numbers. I can’t switch my brain off. 

Saturday night I got drunk with some friends. Fairly standard until things started spiralling. I ended up crying solidly for hours while my friend sat hugging me, desparely trying to calm me down. He was too scared to leave me even at 4 in the morning when he started falling asleep himself. 

He distracted me with songs and talked about his tattoos. He studied my arms and kissed my scars. He took my makeup off and undid my hair. I kept telling him I was sorry over an over again, as he wiped the tears rolling down my face. I bet he’s glad I’m so far away now I’m at uni. 

I must be such an effort to be around. I honestly can’t do this anymore. People in this world are too kind to be bothered with me. Everyone on here is too nice – why are you even reading this?? 

It’s the good people around who make me hate myself the most. Why do they care. I just don’t understand. To be honest I don’t think I’ve ever understood.

People say shitty things. That’s a given anywhere, but I can cope with that – I’ve called myself much worse. It’s when someone cares I’ll beat myself up over it more than anyone ever could. I don’t deserve the compassion some people have. I don’t deserve their thoughtful words. I don’t deserve their kindness. 

My generation is given so much shit for being selfish with bad manners etc. but it’s the good people out there who are ignored. Some people don’t even think they exist and I’m surrounded by them – so why am more depressed than ever. 

Is it suicide if you’re already dead inside?

I just need to breathe but I’m suffocating. Even after the deepest breath I’m still gasping for air. 
Depressions like that; no matter how free you are there are still chains around your ankles. Weights dragging you down. Boulders tied to your arms. 

I’m going to honest – suicide has been playing on my mind a lot recently. It seems increasingly like the only solution to what I’ve been feeling. 

I’ve spent the last year telling myself I’ve been getting better. Telling myself I’m recovered. Telling myself I’m fine. But I know I’ve just been lying and I don’t think I can cope anymore. People are saying how proud they are of me for coming this far but all I can see is deceit. 

It’s been 5 weeks since I’ve been at univerity and everything just seems to keep getting worse. Maybe it because I’ve not seen my family for over a month. I did’t think I’d get homesick but I miss being able to be myself. I miss not being constantly on edge. Living with other people means that I’m permantly anxious. There’s no ‘home’ where I can relax. 

I’m so paranoid that I’m hated I’ve forced myself to talk to people as little as possible so I don’t annoy them. I want to be friendly but my brain is screaming at me no. If I text them they’ll think I’m clingy. If I go in the kitchen they’ll think I’m fat. If I talk for too long they’ll think I’m weird. Everything I do, everything I say, I’m bombarded with thousands of angry thoughts. 

I’ve self harmed 4 times in the last two weeks. Very much broken my 6 month clean streak. Now I’ve relapsed I can’t see much point in stopping. I don’t care anymore. I’ve also purged. It was only one meal but that’s something I’ve not done in over a year. I’m not letting myself buy anymore food until I have nothing left in my cupboards so slowly I’ll be eating less and less. I want to be skinny again maybe then I’ll be less anxious. Maybe then I’ll have some will to live. 

Basically I’ve relapsed with everything. 

Sorry this is so depressing. I’m so depressed. Sorry if you follow my blog for motivation to recover. I’ve run dry. 

When silence means yes

** rape trigger warning **

He grabbed my waist and pulled me towards him. I moved his hand but didn’t say anything. Maybe he just wanted to dance.

Just friends, I said. 

I turned my head away as he drew closer. He pushed me against the wall and pressed his lips against mine. 

Stop I whispered, That’s enough

I looked into his eyes and shook my head as he tried to slide his hand under my bra. It was my fault I let him kiss me. Did that mean yes? I wasn’t sure. 

Don’t I murmured. 

As I was trying to slowly back off, i tripped and tried to scramble to my feet but he was already in top of me. I put my hands under him and tried to push him off.

Get off. 

I put my hand over the button on my jeans as his fingers slid further down my stomach. Speak up my mind shouted at me but when I opened my mouth no words came out. Maybe he’d get bored of trying to get into my pants I thought. 

He picked up my hand and pinned it to the floor. With his other hand he began unbuttoning his trousers. Fuck I thought as I felt my heart race. 1,2,3,4. I counted in my head trying to slow my breathing. 1,2,3,4. I begged for it to be over soon. 

Suddenly he stood up. I thought it was over. I thought he’d given up on me. Sitting up, I began to straighten myself out until I felt his fingers curl around my ponytail and my head was forced into his crotch. I pushed off him with one hand, the other grabbing at his trying my hardest to free myself from his grip. 

I won’t go into too much detail but I rembering him smirk as I gagged. Both hands firmly held my me down, using my hair as a lever to his pleasure. 

By the time he let go there silent tears running down my face. I remember him whispering let’s do this again sometime. 

I never actually said no – so does that mean yes? I stopped struggling and froze out of fear – does not moving equal consent? I was friends with him already – did I give him the wrong impression? I was wearing a dress – did that mean I was asking for it?

It was my fault so I didn’t tell a soul. 

Temptations are rising

It’s been nearly six months. Two more weeks until I’m six months clean from self harming. 

Sort of clean by accident to be honest. I used to self harm whenever I felt the need to and the time between episodes gradually grew from hours to months. 

It seems to be constantly on my mind at the moment though. I don’t want to give in but at the same time I just want to feel something. I don’t even think I’m that depressed – just empty. No thoughts or feelings. Head in the clouds. 

Self harming has always grounded me and I need to be brought back more than ever. 

So far

So here it goes. My life so far. I’ve been meaning to write this for a while but it’s quite a lot to think about. I’m only 18 so most people reading this will assume I’m just another spoilt teenage girl making a fuss over nothing. To be honest that’s probably true. 

One of my earliest memories of school was being bullied. I spent a lot of my childhood moving countries and moving schools. My first nursery I went to, I was so shy I refused to speak to anyone. I sat alone and accepted older children throwing sand in my face. Never complained.

Aged 3. Pushed, shoved and laughed at on the daily. I wasn’t allowed to play because the other children reminded me I wasn’t good enough. Teachers watched and laughed. 

Age 5 new country, new school. Still hardly spoke but it was better. Had a couple a friends but they weren’t that close. I was hopsitalied multiple times for allergies and severe asthma attacks. Every cold I had was life threatening. 

Aged 7 I was diagnosed with ADD and medicated. Even though I was young – each class I took was set on abilities. Because of my ADD I was bottom for everything but I had I high IQ. I began to hate school and did even less than I used to. Shouted at by my parents daily. I was a lazy waste of space. 

This was also the age I stopped eating when I wasn’t being watched. During lunch at school I’d rip up my sandwiches into small pieces and hide them in my hand and pockets. Eat a mouthful, throw the rest bin. Dinner, I’d stuff food in my mouth and leave the table to spit it into the toilet. 

At 8 I was diagnosed with social anxiety. Woke up at 6 every morning crying and panicking for an hour and a half until I was dragged to the bus stop. I’d always pretend to be ill so I wouldn’t have to go to school. 

I heard that if I touched my tonsils I’d throw up – it was a rumour going around school. I tried it a couple of times not to get rid of food because that didn’t occur to me, but so I wouldn’t have to eat it in the first place. 

10 I thought I was obese. Slightly below average weight, slightly above average height. I did star jumps and squats in my bedroom. I needed smaller thighs. At this age I was also diagnosed with general anxiety. I had frequent panick attacks and every insignificant thing I did I assumed it was done wrong. Negative thoughts looped over and over in my mind. I hated myself. 

Aged 11/12 I began self harming consciously. I was in the garden and dug a thorn into my skin. I slowly pushed it in and out of my arm until it bled and then rubbed dirt in it. It became infected and I was happy. I was diagnosed with depression and began self harming regularly. 

The last 6 years has been a series of spiralling events. I had depression so severe I stayed in bed for months. Curtains drawn. No one could move me and people gave up. I’ve disassociated for days, coming out and rembering as much as one would remember a dream. I’ve had auditory hallucinations ignored by medical professionals because they don’t fit with what they’ve got written down. At one point I was 100 lbs and 5’9 – apparently this was fine. In and out of cycles of binging and purging followed by not eating and barely drinking water for days. Suicidal thoughts and suicide attempts. 

18. It looks like it’s finally on the up. I know it’s nowhere near the end of my problems but I don’t think it could get worse than it has been before. I’ve made it through the toughest of times and I’ll be able to make it through again. 

Dear body, I’m sorry

** SH trigger warning **

I’m sorry for all the blades that I’ve pressed against your skin. Slowly dragging. Quickly swiping. Cold metal against the fragile flesh. Alone, crying, anything sharp would do.

I’m sorry for all the scars that have been left as the blood flowed down, dripping, steady streams of red. Self made stitches. Rusty needles, dirty thread. 

I’m sorry for starving you. Surrounded by food, but none inside. Sugar free gum and starving cries. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. How many days has it been? Who cares. Pain made me happy. Pain makes it real. 

I’m sorry for the sharp fingers I shoved down your throat. It needed to be gone. All the filth, hatred and disgust. All the suffering, pain and tears. It would make you too fat. It was for your own good. 

I’m sorry for all the laxitives I swallowed. Small yellow pills. One by one. Two by two. I thought they were cleansing you. It needed to be gone. Too many salad leaves. Too many thoughts. 

I’m sorry for all that alcohol I poured into your mouth. Sip after sip. The numbing burning soothed me. Sip after sip. I though it made me happy. Sip after sip. Head down the toilet. Sip after sip. Repeat the next day. 

I’m sorry for all those boys I let touch you. Grubby hands, dirty minds. You didn’t want it. I know that now. Grabbing fingers, desperate touch. You were already damaged goods. Unwanted filth. Anyone could have you. I didn’t care. 

Dear body, I’m sorry. For you are a temple but I didn’t know. There’s lots wrong with you but nothing I can change. I’ve accepted you and I’m sorry it took so long for me to do so. 

Dear me, one day I’ll make you proud.