(no subject)
my BMI has been 14.6 for the last two days. i remember the time when that used to make me happy. It doesn't any more...

...so why the FUCK can't i view recovery as a possibility?

This is not a fucking life.

(no subject)
Reasons to Die:

  1.  I can never move house.
  2. I can never get a new job, a job i am actually good at.
  3. I can never have any friends.
  4. I can never recover.
  5. I have always, and will always, fail at everything i ever attempt.
  6. I am controlled by numbers.
  7. I can't stand anything.
  8. I am ugly as sin.
  9. I can not care about anything, except for all of my failings.
  10. I am tired.

I can never move house.

(no subject)
i thought i could become hardened to living completly alone, getting through the days without talking to anyone.

i can't.

i need someone who i can talk to.

(no subject)
i have nothing to live for and i'm scared. no one loves me. there is hate and disgust in the eyes of people when they see me. i can't fucking do this any more. i can't do anything i can't do anything.

(no subject)

                  there is nothing there.

'Not Waving But Drowning'.

 Not Waving But Drowning

Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he's dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.

Stevie Smith

"Wanting to Die", by Anne Sexton

Wanting to Die

Since you ask, most days I cannot remember.
I walk in my clothing, unmarked by that voyage.
Then the almost unnameable lust returns.

Even then I have nothing against life.
I know well the grass blades you mention,
the furniture you have placed under the sun.

But suicides have a special language.
Like carpenters they want to know which tools.
They never ask why build.

Twice I have so simply declared myself,
have possessed the enemy, eaten the enemy,
have taken on his craft, his magic.

In this way, heavy and thoughtful,
warmer than oil or water,
I have rested, drooling at the mouth-hole.

I did not think of my body at needle point.
Even the cornea and the leftover urine were gone.
Suicides have already betrayed the body.

Still-born, they don't always die,
but dazzled, they can't forget a drug so sweet
that even children would look on and smile.

To thrust all that life under your tongue!--
that, all by itself, becomes a passion.
Death's a sad Bone; bruised, you'd say,

and yet she waits for me, year after year,
to so delicately undo an old wound,
to empty my breath from its bad prison.

Balanced there, suicides sometimes meet,
raging at the fruit, a pumped-up moon,
leaving the bread they mistook for a kiss,

leaving the page of the book carelessly open,
something unsaid, the phone off the hook
and the love, whatever it was, an infection.

Anne Sexton

(no subject)
it is more of a mess than it has ever been. is it ever ok to die if you think you will cause more hurt and chaos and just fucking misery by staying alive.

(no subject)
to drown. to swirl down. clear water, a smooth river bed, few marks.

edges smoothed out, like a pebble's, clean at last.

air bubbles drifting up, harmless as a child's balloon floating up into the sky, forming as easily as a lie.

air bubbles, then none.

(no subject)
i feel sad today.


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