Entries of a Wrist Cutter

These are the entries of a wrist cutter. A self harmer suffering from BPD, borderline personality disorder. The entries include prose and poetry, and are semi-autobiographical.

0Likes
0Comments
751Views
AA

3. Dead

 

I was dead.

Opening my eyes to realise I did in fact exist was the most disappointing experience I had ever been through. My heart sank. The weight of the darkness filled my body and mind. Coming to terms with the fact that I was alive and breathing was the most excruciating torment I had ever experienced.

Looking around in a frantic confusion I found myself lost in one thought alone; what the fuck? I exist…

And then I began to wonder; how can I be alive when I was just dead? How could I have opened my eyes when I couldn’t recall ever closing them? I didn’t fall asleep because if I had then I would have felt the consciousness of sleeping. I didn’t dream, I didn’t think and I didn’t feel anything. Not once did I stir to feel the presence of my existence. There was an absolute nothing. No life. I was free of every emotion, every thought, and every constraint.

Now suddenly awake and alive, the disappointment wrapped itself around me like a snake coiling around a small animal, tightly squeezing and smothering its prey. Time seemed to regain its control as the seconds ticked away; passing. How I wished my life to end then and there…

I never knew how depressing listening to classical music and staring at a blank wall could be. My mind was as blank as the white wall. I stared at that wall for hour after hour. The strings of violins sounded, triggering violent thoughts of ferocious cutting. Self mutilation; I craved it… The smell of blood filled my nostrils. The taste lingered in my mouth. The memories were so vivid I could even feel the blade slash across my wrists, legs, stomach. Yet I lay there, so calmly, as if those were thoughts and desires of a peaceful nature.

Immobile; I was immobile. Tears streamed down my face, uncontrollably. I never really understood how emotions worked, how they control our actions and thoughts. Impossible it was, to understand why I continued living every day, every bleak day, battered; battered by the tortures of suicidal thoughts. Why did I torture myself so? For what reason, what purpose? I couldn’t ever fully turn my head away from the living, but I could never understand why.

A zombie; I was a zombie, a lifeless walking corpse. The memory of the journey to living dead is now lost somewhere in time. I can’t recall the first day I felt dead inside. I wish I could go over my life like a movie and see where everything changed and I became a self destructive, suicidal wreck. But I can’t do that. So I suffer instead. On a daily basis, I suffer; day in, day out, and every moment in between.

It’s a shame most people don’t see this.

I remember when I was eleven I would sit in the haunted room, the highest and coldest room of the seven storey house that my grandparents had lived in for over thirty years. I remember sitting there listening to depressing music on repeat for hours and hours, day after day. The room wasn’t really haunted. I know that now that I’m old enough to see sense; there is no such thing as ghosts. But as I was growing up I was told that when a room is really cold and damp it’s because it’s haunted. Bullshit.

I spent most of my childhood in that house, and as long as I lived there, not once did I physically harm myself. I was only emotionally scarred, and now I’m physically scarred too. I grew up around fear, but now the only thing I fear is living. It’s hard to live when you’re afraid of letting go and giving yourself the freedom to live.

Join MovellasFind out what all the buzz is about. Join now to start sharing your creativity and passion
Loading ...