Got the left side of my lip redone. Swollen but ehhh

I feel like beating myself up but life already beat me to it. I’ve had enough but I’m still going. I need to pick up the pieces and put myself back together but all the pieces are spread apart and strewn around this house in numerous notebooks. I don’t know where half of them are, they’re lost just like me. My memories are in pages or locked away in my inner depths--please excuse me, this is a half-hearted attempt at being “deep.”

I just haven’t written in so long, I keep exiting out of stories because I know the ending. I know the end. I can’t watch movies because most are bullshit, just like my stories. I know how they end, too, but they’re not as cold and heartless as real life. Movies sugarcoat everything, tell you you’re always going to have some form of a happy ending. I was just watching a movie and I had to close out of it, I know how it ends without ever seeing it. The girl’s going to pick the wrong guy and convince herself she’s happy just because it’s easy. I could be wrong but I know how it really goes. She could go for the right guy but that’s just show business. I’ve never been in that situation, I’ve never had two guys pawning over me. That must be a predicament, though.

This thing right now that I’m writing has no point except to occupy my time on a sleepless night and to waste yours if you’re really that bored. But it’s good, not for quality or for health, I’ve just missed writing for such a long time and it’s good to finally be able to type or write something without wanting to just erase the whole fucking thing. And maybe the other times were good too, the failed attempts, because it gave me something to do and showed me how far I’ve spiraled down here lately and it allowed me to erase something--not erase what I want to but to have some control, to be able to just make something appear and disappear like it never existed.

There’s been a very, very dark cloud hanging above my head and don’t be fooled, it’s still there but so am I. I’m here despite how much I’d not like to be. This is your proof that I’m here and I mean really here because if I’m not writing…I’m gone, checked out for the time being.

I scare myself, I don’t think anyone really knows that. I don’t think anyone sees what a threat I am to myself. Sure, anyone that’s seen the inside of my left arm or the upper portion of my right thigh or has talked to me personally in one of my bouts of pathetic, self-loathing pits of depression has caught glimpses. But they don’t ever fully grasp that I could do it. I could kill myself, I could ignore the guilt until it was too late and just fucking slice the veins and swallow the pills. I scare myself because I know and I’m always looking for a reason to add to the list and Goddamn it, that list is long. And I have sunk so low as to put myself in situations that I, myself, wouldn’t be the one taking my life--of course, I didn’t know it at the time.

Maybe that makes me the worst type of person, just maybe. And who would anyone else be to judge? I don’t purposely hurt anyone but myself and I, in fact, go out of my way to be good to everyone even when they don’t deserve it. I grant forgiveness all the fucking time and that’s a great gift, relieving someone of their guilt. It really is. To forgive someone for doing you dirty, to tell them it’s okay and that they no longer need to feel the guilt? That’s one of the best presents you can give because then they can right back on with their life, free of worry that you hate them. Actually, no. You can forgive someone, sort of, and still hate them.

I feel like I was never forgiven by my family and some of my friends for coping. They think I’m some sort of horrible person for bottling shit up and then cutting myself when I explode. I was alleviating pressure. That is what I know. I will not feel guilt for doing what I felt like I had to and when you really want to place blame, it’s all theirs for the times they weren’t there when I practically begged them to be--not the times that they should have saw the signs, no ones a fucking mind reader and people have their own shit but the times that I came to them. I don’t know how many times I turned to people, just to be batted away. But that’s over, done with…and you know what, they can take their forgiveness and fuck themselves because I was coping but it bugs me every time it’s thrown in my face.

I don’t excuse my faults and I don’t reason them out to feel good about myself, I just need to know why I do what I do…why people do what they do, this can’t be random acts and whims. I don’t like myself, I’m not going to sugarcoat what I’ve done so that I can or for anyone else to. Things just need to be said, sorted, and tucked away but that never happens, not realistically.

I just don’t like how unfair everything is. I get it, life’s not easy but does it have to be filled with such fucking bullshit?