tomydearcharlotte

[tomydearcharlotte]

If you knew.

If I told you about the mess in my head, what would you do? You’d tell me to seek help. You’d want me to talk about it. But I am so scared, that people would tell me it’s not that bad. That I’m pretending to be sick. That I’m not really mentally ill. That I’m doing it for attention. That I’m just trying to defend my laziness. That it’s not just me excusing basic shit everyone deals with. But does everyone want to die? Do you ever think about jumping? About cutting your arms open? About driving off the road? Or taking too many pills? Please tell me what to do.

I am so damn lost. But you’ll never know.

[tomydearcharlotte]

[tomydearcharlotte]

[tomydearcharlotte]

Almost.

Fast cars driving under my feet.

Standing on a bridge just watching them pass.

Mindlessly staring.

Unconsciously counting cars, calculating their speed. Guessing the perfect moment to jump. Fantasizing how quick I’d have to climb the fence to avoid anyone intervening.

Almost.

My mind switching into the fear of finity, the fear of the unknown, the fear of not dying from the jump and barely surviving, just making everything worse.

A punch to the stomach. I’m trying not to throw up.

Just walking away like nothing happened.

[tomydearcharlotte]

She‘ll never talk, she’ll never talk about the feelings that she felt today,

Better kept inside of a fence, inside of a cage, inside of a safe

That’s safe for her,

‘Cause they, they just hurt.

[tomydearcharlotte]

Let me sleep

I’m tired of trying.

Tired of not being good enough.

Tired of getting my hopes up and destroyed.

Tired of dreaming. Wishing. Wanting. Failing.

I’m stuck in my head. And I’m so tired of it. So tired of this brain. Just so damn tired.

[tomydearcharlotte]

Regret.

Stop drinking.

Stop making stupid decisions.

Stop ruining everything all the time.

Stop trying to impress with stupid things.

Stop fucking up.

And please, stop waking up the next morning filled with regret of the dumb things you did.

[tomydearcharlotte]

One day.

Blood dried. Wounds healed. Scars of a past. One day I’ll tell you. One day you’ll see. One of these days I’ll have the guts to tell you, show you, how I’ve been. Let you in on my most private thoughts. Show you how I’ve felt. How I feel. How I’ve been all these years when you only saw me smiling. Shining. Hiding. I’m too weak now. Not today, but

One day.

[tomydearcharlotte]

Papercuts.

Maybe the papercuts, oven burns and clumsy kitchen knife accidents are another way to cope. A way of self harm that doesn’t attract attention. You see them, but they don’t matter. They’re not the scar lined arms you’re used to seeing in mentally ill people. They seem normal, little accidents. Yeah, just a papercut. Don’t worry, dear, I’m fine.

So fucking fine.

[tomydearcharlotte]

Isolation.

Sometimes it’s easier to not be part of the world outside of my apartment.

[tomydearcharlotte]

Dear Charlotte,

I miss you.

But I don’t want to text you, because I don’t want to small talk. I want my best friend. I want somebody who doesn’t just talk. I want you to listen. I want you to know. I want to tell you everything. I want to watch the stars with you and talk for hours, like we used to. But I’m scared. I’m vulnerable. I’m broken.

I‘m empty.

[tomydearcharlotte]

I want to be loved.

I want to be held.

I want to be vulnerable.

I want to be touched.

I want to be understood.

I want to be important.

I want to be special.

I want to be someone.

I want to be happy.

I don’t want to be alone with myself anymore.

[tomydearcharlotte]

When a person tells you that you hurt them, you don't get to decide that you didn't.

Louis C.K.

[tomydearcharlotte]

[tomydearcharlotte]

-pale grunge, bruises and cigarette blog - @nocplesa​

[tomydearcharlotte]

[tomydearcharlotte]

Dear Charlotte,

It's been almost a year since I've been down here. I tried to push the unhappy away. Keep my mind busy. Try being "normal". Fit in. And it worked, there was more to life than sadness. And I drowned my misery in alcohol, because that made me feel something again. And I would spend every weekend out and about seeing friends and family. Thinking about everything around me rather than about myself. But I'm here again. Because I fucked up again. And the only thing on my mind is the little razor in my room. I should've thrown it away, but couldn't. And I'm thinking about the sharp metal touching my skin slowly opening up what I'm made of. The sharp pain, relief, blood dripping. Maybe I'm weak for relapsing, maybe I'm a coward. But it's a way out besides fucking killing myself.

I'm sorry, I hope you still love me.