Have you ever felt so strange, like you really feel like there’s two people inside of you? Which seemed harmless at first, but now find is drawing you back?
Well I do.
-note to self on same page months later-
I HATE MYSELF AND I REALLY DO HATE YOU FOR LETTING ME BE THIS WAY!
-later-
It’s not MY fault.

I Felt nothing. Not even despair. Maybe that’s why the cold and I got along so well. We both created numbness. Mine within myself…

Trust. What is it? How does one get it? Surly not by playing the game of life nicely. With every action you take there’s a price to be paid. But how does one find themselves so lucky to have a person to trust on their journey? I have no one. Not a soul is trust worthy or loyal in my life. I have friends that accuse me of things put against them, and other friends who are weak and jump on the first hate wagon offered to them.
I’m abandoned, forgotten, and portrayed as the bad guy. It’s not me! It’s everyone else who got lost in their games of absurd fake lies. If just one person could prove their love to me I’d be happy. One person could fix my life and restore the hope that has been stolen from me. Just one person. But I know now, just as I knew then, that I am alone.

I feel like there’s something wrong with my heart. My breathing is often off and my chest hurts. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Often at times when I am standing still everything feels like it is moving. My head feels heavy like there is a pain in my brain unlike a headache. It’s affecting my eyes, and my breathing hurts me too. I find trying to do the simplest things in life, like breathing, have become too tiresome for me. I guess I’m just worried about starting school.

The thing on the inside was killing me. I could feel it. The demons all around me were too overwhelming. I don’t know how much longer I could fight them off. I was too ugly, emotionally. In a constant battle with myself. All out comes the same. Pain.
Before I knew what I was doing I had the razor blade at my wrist. My calf. My chest.
I had to release the demons, clean my blood. Actually feel the pain I mentally felt everyday. Make sense of it all. This was tangible. I Could get to it. Fix it. Kill it.
My blood poured out of every portal I created. I was leaking out all bad thoughts I ever had. I laid down and closed my eyes. I felt it all slipping away. My inner evil was disappearing. I was growing lighter. The room was brighter. And then I slept, for all eternity.

(that was a STORY)

The only thing that makes me cry is the thought of myself crying. My writings to myself make me sad. I wonder how I could write with such pain and face no harsh realities of life.
I make myself cry. I think of me as someone else. A lonely depressed girl searching for happiness. I so desperately want her to succeed. Accomplish, and shut-up.
I’m so interested in the world, and what people have to say. But nobody is interested in me.
I pity myself. I hate myself. I mourn myself. I cry at my image, I cry at my mind, I cry at my reflection, I cry at the mention of me. I am dead. And this person who still shows life is a sad stranger to me. Who are you?

I don’t know who it is people expect us to turn to in our time of pain. What are we supposed to do when we feel we have so many strange thoughts lodged in our head that there is no room left for the normal ones?
Who can we really confide in with no judgment other than ourselves? I’ll tell you who, no body.
And so that’s what we do. Nothing.
We keep it all to ourselves, silently going mad until we’re about ready to shout at everyone over little annoyances.
Some of us succumb to tears rather than violence, or both. So we have blogs, diaries, journals.
A away to yell at ourselves or the every once in a while stranger.
It’s like my brain slides into the pen and comes out as ink, sprawling every thought I’ve ever had onto the paper.
I keep writing until I feel my brain finally shut down and for once leave me in peace. Then I sleep.
A sleep that doesn’t feel deserved, but cheated. I’m not escaping my thoughts completely, but vacationing. A bitter sweet punishment like you’ve never felt.
It always ends the same. I wake with the same dreary feeling I had before I wrote and start my day off with a bit of despair and an aching emptiness in my stomach which I try to pass off as hungry just to maintain my sanity.
But the fact right there should have sent off enough warnings. Having to ‘maintain’ my sanity?
Surly any sane person wouldn’t have to constantly remind themselves that they are sane, and just like anybody else.
Oh, if only there were someone else.
I know they exist.
Please just let me find you.
Love, me.

Writing by moonlight again, this can’t be healthy. It’s currently four o’clock in the morning and I am wide awake. I sometimes wonder if there’s anyone else up at this hour doing the same thing I am and hoping beyond hope that they’re not alone.
Wishing they could take comfort in the fact that they’re not as abnormal as they’ve made themselves out to be.
Hear me, stranger. You are not alone.

But, alas, there is no way i can be certain you are the same as me for we have no portals to connect through. Trying to have your words read on the internet feels nearly impossible. You want your writings to be justified and yet you’re being out read by the girl who bashes celebrities and trends.
I’m not here to hate on the people I can’t even being to know, or the fashion statements that bring me no harm.
Hating is futile, and causes pain. I want to heal.

I want to be there for the people who feel as lost and ostracized as I do.
The true people who feel as if they can no longer even trust themselves.
The reserved who are afraid of drawing attention.
The skeptics who can barely live their own lives due to constant paranoia.
I’m calling out to you.
The estranged one. The one who’s family doesn’t even know anything about their true feelings.
The one who has a lust for writing and feels as if nothing else could ever satisfy.
The one who has been their own therapist their whole lives, and hid it.
And, of course, the shy one who was just too scared to try.
This is for you. We are for you. I am you.