A child's wants, part 2
Bruises that won’t heal.
It has been a little more than over a year since I attempted suicide. Looking back on it, maybe it wasn’t as much of a big deal as I thought. After realizing what I had done, I called an ambulance and was administered activated charcoal to take the drugs out of my body.
I still got pretty fucked up of course, then went to the psych ward for a bit which was ass but it’s fine because I didn’t stay very long. Then I went home and went on to live the rest of my life, which takes us to today.
I’m definitely a lot happier than when I was back then. I made small and big achievements, met old and new friends, learned and relearned a few things, and improved my family relationship.
I’m still struggling with depression and BPD. I still feel crushing loneliness. Harrowing void. Burning jealousy. Undying self-hatred. And it’s never fully gonna go away. A lot of people treat me like a freak, and I’ll meet many more that will think I’m subhuman because of BPD.
I wish I lived in a world where it doesn’t seem like everyone collectively hates me for developing a mental disorder because of childhood trauma that was imposed upon me. It sucks that, in real life or on-line, people all agree to collectively hate on people who have BPD and treat them like monsters. It sucks to see people fetishize them only to then turn around and then describe them like animals or lesser humans.
I wish I felt attractive. I wish I felt people cared for me. I wish I was as loved as those I envy.
I wish I mattered more to my friends. I’m not anyone’s first choice, and never have been. I wish I didn’t know nobody would care much if I were gone. I wish the people I hold dear would hold me dear as well and care for me, and seek me. But I’m never the person they choose as their first choice for company, or second or third or fourth or fifth.
Feels like something’s always missing, though. This is the peak of corny, but I think maybe I really was more successful than I thought on that attempt and maybe it really took away a piece of myself. I still feel that constant emptiness gnawing away at me. Black soul, black eyes, black heart, black love. All black, everything black.
But I really think I’m different now. I feel free from the shackles of complacency. There is no comfort in misery anymore. Rather than meeting pain with self-pity, I cherish and crave for it. I’ve become a glutton for hurting. Maybe that can manifest in unhealthy ways, but I feel like it’s definitely used in productive ways.
I love my friends, and I don’t care if they love me back. I feel like I am walking towards attaining true love, and I think that’s great. Self-hatred was the heaviest burden for me, but I polished that black metal into the sharpest of blades, a cursed sword that works for me at the cost of drinking my blood.
I have a healthy relationship with my new favorite person. Sometimes I miss the soaring highs and the crushing lows of romance, but now I’m happy with just loving from afar with no strings attached, demanding nothing in return.
I took what was lacking in me and made form out of my emptiness. Now I feel I can appreciate my heart for what it is, a good work that is made mainly through applying negative, empty space. I don’t feel the need to use my different colored tears to smudge it further. I’m happy with how it is for now.
I’m not complacent though, there’s still a lot I want and am striving for. I still yearn for love, pain, lust, competence, excellence. I still feel like I can’t smile from the bottom of my heart, but I don’t wear my scars with shame now, literal or figurative.
Although I’m still weak, stupid, ignorant, and hopelessly frail, I have learned that my life is not completely my own, and it’s better that way. I want to be stronger to be there for the people I care about, even should they not care about me.
Thank you to everyone who has been supporting me through everything. You know who you are.