i am writing in the bathtub

trigger warning:  insecurity, exhaustion, feeling like you have to hurt a lot to be worth other people’s attention, depression/hopelessness

i am writing in the bathtub and i am trying to calm the scream. my brain has been lit on fire and 90% of me feels ugly how did the weeks pass this quickly. i miss the you you used to be. i am standing at the bottom of a black hole, and i think maybe gravity cannot get any stronger than this. they told me the good news was that bad days are only 24 hours long. and yeah. that’s true. but tomorrow, the despair just seems to spread out its arms collapsing right on top of my lungs like it’s determined to crush them. i just want to tell someone that i’m happy and mean it. i just want to tell me i’m happy and mean it. except i don’t, really, because tragedy is the only colour that looks good on me. and they are right that i could mostly live off just being inside me but like. i’ve never tried so. i don’t really know. i do know you make me happy, though. i do know that i have trouble being alone. i do know that i need to learn how to be alone. i do know that i have trouble facing my fears, and that i see monsters when i look at the walls of this home. i do know that the headache feels impossible to swallow away. i do know that my skull feels like it’s about to rupture under the pressure of me. i do know that when something bad happens, the thought of suicide is the first place my brain goes, like it’s a ticking time bomb, like death is all it knows. and when i first started feeling this way as in this way i was six years old, and now i feel like a house of cards waiting to explode, and i’m not exactly sure when i became so fucked up, but here i am. here i am, being so worried and stressed out in the morning that i forget to take my medication, and i just miss when things were simple, but i also don’t miss it at all. i am writing in the bathtub, and the water envelops me, and i bury myself in the silence, and i’d like to pretend it’s midnight, pretend no one is awake but me, pretend i can ride the cloud-castles of my creativity. i’d like to pretend i could spend all day this way. but the steam is suffocating me, and every day i wake up fearing that today will be the day when the world sort of erupts, and every morning i juggle black-and-white faces, dancing between despair and euphoria, and all of that sounds really fancy, and until i started talking about this i didn’t even realize how broken i was, and i feel disabled sometimes, like i am missing limbs but those limbs are emotions. those limbs are my ability to deal with this. and by this, i mean all of it. i mean the clatter of your voice and the dishes, and the quiet emptiness i force myself to swim through, because. i’m told it’s supposed to get better, after i try this. and i’m not even sure what happened did someone drop me on my head i’m going to hate myself until i can hurt myself deep enough that there’s a black hole large enough to swallow me only i’ll shove it into my past, because then i can throw myself into it and justify all of this. but i don’t have the heart to do any of that. and that shouldn’t feel like a weakness.


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