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Sometimes at night I suddenly become aware of all the things I’m missing out on right now, and all the people who I’m not close to anymore, and all of the good times that will never happen again, and all the people who meant the world to me who have forgotten about me forever, and I get this awful feeling that’s kind of like a mix between loneliness and nostalgia.

(Source: lunafur, via rejouir)

Rightio.

Well it’s 12:15 in the morning, and I’ve had a motherfucking epiphany that I just need to get off my chest. 

When I first started high school, I got bullied severely for 6 weeks. It was so bad that by the 7th week of term, I’d already moved school. My new school was great, I had friends there and I was just a normal girl starting high school. But then I started getting these thoughts, just wondering why I had been bullied in the first place. Was there something wrong with me? I didn’t even know these girls, but they still felt the need to bully me for absolutely no reason anyway, so obviously something was wrong with me.

I cut for the first time in September of 2010. I was 12. After I did it, I was horrified. I’ve always been mature, and I knew what I was doing. But it still scared the hell out of me. Never again I said to myself. But it didn’t work that way. A few weeks after that my mum noticed and asked me if I knew what I was doing to myself. She always underestimated my maturity. But of course I did, and told her that. She made me promise to not do it again. And I did, for a little while. 

I didn’t think it was too bad; I only did it if something really bad happened, which was maybe every few months. Then my friend started, and as sick as this is, I remembered what it felt like… and missed it. I actually missed it. I missed making myself hurt. At this point I realised just how fucked up I was. For one to miss scarring themselves, and seeing themselves bleed. I just couldn’t comprehend it. That was April of 2011.

I started cutting more often, not every day, or even every week, but still more frequently. I started having trouble sleeping. It would take me hours to fall asleep at night, and being a natural late sleeper, it didn’t help. I got down to having 2-3 hours of sleep per night. I don’t know how I functioned that way. This didn’t help my mood in anyway, it made me more irritable. It was like pmsing everyday. This started interfering with my school work; well obviously it would. I was a 13 year old girl surviving on at most 21 hours of sleep a week. 

I had a breakdown in August of 2011. I started crying on my way to school, and falling asleep from how tired I was. Having had a fight with my parents the night before, my dad stopped the car outside my school and yelled at me. Not because he was blaming me, but because he didn’t know how he could let one of his children, his only daughter become this fucked up. He didn’t state these feelings to me, but I knew his anger was directed at himself, not me. 

Since these periods of depressiveness come in bouts, everything was fine for a little while after that moment. My parents offered counseling. I declined. I didn’t want it. It would be like a confirmation that there was truly something wrong with me. They half-heartedly checked on me from time to time. I was fine for a few more months.

March of 2012 I had another breakdown. I wanted to get away, just to get away from it all. I needed to be as far away from my home as possible. My dad contacted his parents in England. But no, my step cousin was being treated for cancer there. As disgusting as this is, I intensely disliked my step cousin and my grandparents. It was like they were setting out to make my life hard. But I reasoned with myself, always priding myself on being a decent human being, I told myself it wasn’t their fault. Another bout of depression and self harm down.

April of 2012, I started skipping meals. Well no, I started skipping meals when I was 6, but this was different. I liked skipping meals, it made me feel good that I hadn’t eaten anything, like I’d accomplished something. I was scared. I didn’t want to get into anorexia. I talked to one of my best friends about it, and was shocked to hear that it’d been going on for way longer than I’d thought. Since it was the early stages, I snapped myself out of it as quickly as I could. But every photo I saw of myself, or every time I saw my body in the mirror, I was disgusted. I still feel bad sometimes for eating, but that’s not one of my main problems. You could say I’m a part time anorexic, without the small weight.

My dad cheated on my mum when I was five. In May of 2012, he told my mum he didn’t want to be married to her anymore because he was sick of how suspicious she was. My mum broke down. I missed a week of school looking after my mum. She couldn’t even eat. I had to physically hold her down and force food into her mouth, which was plain ironic really. My brothers weren’t helping me. Me, a 14 year old girl, had to look after my 46 year old mother, while having extremely unstable thoughts. At this time, my parents knew I was cutting, knew I was hurting myself on a daily basis because of what they were putting me through. They didn’t do anything. This started another bout of depressiveness.

June of 2012, I wanted to kill myself. Not just for my own problems, but I’m a selfish person. If I had moments of enjoyment with family members, I’d think about how sad and broken I’d be if they died. In my mind, I’d rather kill myself first than have to go through that. I didn’t want to have to deal with any more hurt or pain, but I knew in the back of my mind, I could never kill myself. I’m too scared of what could happen after to do it. It didn’t stop me from attempting though.

I googled how long it took to bleed out from a wrist cut. The answers were bleak, I didn’t actually want to die. I thought about overdosing, but I didn’t know how many pills it would take to just knock me out. I didn’t have the guts to try that either. I still wrote my notes. One for my parents, one for my brothers, one for my best friends. I laid them out on my bed and went to the bathroom. My family being from a medical background, have tons of tools and pills lying around our house, including scalpels. I went and had a shower, hoping that my parents wouldn’t find the notes before the time was right.

But they did. They knocked on the door, calling out to me. I assured them I was fine, and that the notes were for an english assignment. Me, being the great liar I am, convinced them and they left. I got dressed and picked up the scalpel, but I couldn’t do it; they’d interrupted my time. I settled for some cuts instead, and walked out of the bathroom with my arm dripping with blood. 

I started having a panic attack. My body was shaking, I was crying and my hands had even got pins and needles from hyperventilating. My mum found me and hugged me, bringing me back into their study. I sat with my parents there for 2 hours. They wanted to help me and asked what I needed. I still felt that sense of needing to get away, even though it was 3 months later. My dad contacted his parents again, only to bring back more bad news. I didn’t know what to do, it was as if the whole world was just against me. I was angry, and took it out on my parents. But after my reconsideration of the situation, I settled for going to the other side of the country, but my mum had to come with me. That was when I knew the trip would be a failure, I wouldn’t be able to sort myself out with her there, because I’d have my normal facade on. But I agreed anyway.

I went to a party the night before my flight. It was fun I guess, but after coming home and going to sleep, I woke at 3am from feeling sick. I didn’t want to fly anymore, I wanted to stay home, but not just because I was sick. It was a petty reason. My older brother would celebrate his 19th Birthday while I was away. I have a somewhat big crush on one of my brother’s friends. He’d be at this party. He’d taken my mind off my own troubles easily before, and I didn’t want to miss seeing him. I told my parent’s that I didn’t want to go because I was sick, I didn’t want to fly while feeling like shit, but they made me go anyway. 

We arrived at our destination and I pleaded with my mum for 3 days to let us go back, I could still make it in time for this party. She said no. I gave up and tried to enjoy my trip, but I really just wanted to go home. I tried again a few days after, the party had already gone past, but I didn’t care, I just wanted home. She said no again. This wasn’t good for my mood, but I tried to endure it, fighting the urge to cut all the time. 

Yesterday, my mum walked past me while I was on tumblr. She saw photos of tattoos. She told me they were disgusting and that I shouldn’t like things like that. I yelled at her, asking her what was so wrong with them. And told her I’m planning on getting my own tattoo on my 18th birthday. She got mad, but knowing that I would do what I wanted to anyway, just said ‘Whatever’ and went on with what she was doing. I was annoyed, and let her know of that.

Last night, I was feeling so low. The bad thoughts towards myself were coming into my mind. I wanted to cut. It’s an addiction. For me, it’s like releasing tension. Every little bad thing just adds up, and soon you just feel like you’re going insane. Inflicting pain onto yourself, for some reason, releases all of that. And you feel sane again. For a little while anyway. I talked to my other best friend, but she just ended up pissing me off. Letting me know the cliched, ‘You’ll get stronger if you fight this.’ I just didn’t care. I went to bed last night, with no cuts on my body, but with a mind that was going haywire. It was a struggle, but I somehow got through it.

Today, I asked someone to rate my blog. I got a 7. A 7. A 7 is what you give to someone when you don’t like them, but you don’t want to be mean. I got upset. Yes, I got upset about someone not liking my blog. It was the stupidest little thing.

But then you know what I thought? ‘Fuck it.’ 

My mum tried to talk to me, but I started yelling at her again, telling her what a judgmental bitch she was. I let her know how I felt about her judging everyone and not accepting people for how they are. She shut up when she realised I was right. I ended up lecturing my own mum on how her behaviour was disgusting. And also let her know how I shouldn’t be the one lecturing her on how she should be accepting of everyone, and how I shouldn’t have to deal with this shit when I have my own problems.

And from all that lecturing, I realised something. If I don’t give a fuck about whether someone has piercings, tattoos and dyed hair, then why not, not give a fuck about everything else.

No one cares is the honest reality. Who gives a flying fuck if someone doesn’t like your blog. Who cares if someone has tattoos. Who cares if someone doesn’t. I shouldn’t give a fuck about what people think of me. And that’s what I’m going to start doing. 

So here it is. There’s my story so far. I don’t give a fuck if you don’t agree with my swearing, I don’t give a fuck if you don’t agree with my views, I don’t give a fuck if you think I’m a bitch. I am who I am. Sure you can judge me on this, but when it really comes down to it, who gives a shit. 

Yes I’m only 14. Yes, to some of you I might sound like a whiny bitch. But I know what I’ve been through, I know what I value, and if you think that, then your opinion doesn’t matter to me.

So I’m not going to hurt myself anymore, because I am better than that. And I don’t need people telling me that I’m not, because I know I am. I’m sick of how sick society is, and even though I technically am society, I’m not conforming to this. 

Do you ever just stop and think about how weird and coincidental it is that sometimes a person likes another person, and that person likes them back?

How does that even happen?
I don’t understand. 

(Source: ganitsirk, via girly-shitt)