Take a deep breath…

Aunna and Blake are shouting at each other. All I asked was for Blake to take a bath. He said no. Aunna yelled at him for not listening to me. I’m hiding in bed through all the yelling. It all reminds me of my dad yelling at me. At my brothers. My self is reminding me of my step mom getting upset and hiding.

I am a product of my upbringing.

I want to hide. I want to go to the ER. I feel like I’m a danger to myself. To others. I’m going to explode. I’m holding myself tight, knees to my chest, arms close together, head bowed to my phone to keep the explosion in.

I’m going to implode.

I need a grand gesture to convince them that I need help.

Words are not enough.

Should I cut deep enough for stitches?

Should I steal Aunna’s keys while she’s in the bathroom and take all my pills until my mouth foams? Would my pills do that?

Death seems so sweet. I want to die. Kill me. Kill me. Kill me.


I’m needed.
Not in the whole life saving needing that people need me because they love me. (I’m sure people do but not enough for my suicidal brain, nothing is ever enough) But they need me because I do stuff for them. Needed to clean, needed to drive people, needed to be there for my son. (my choice, but it’s feeling less like motherhood because my heart isn’t in it. I’m a terrible mother. Even one of my therapists was like “You’re acting like his sister, not his mother.” like jeeze, thanks for pointing out my faults, I sure feel SO MUCH BETTER.)
My parents need me to be baby sitter to my brothers who are SIXTEEN and THIRTEEN. I am needed to drive them everywhere. If I was in the hospital I make everything hard on them. Like how dare I get help because I’m not there to DO things for them.
I do have the Step-Mother like Cinderella, but she isn’t evil. I actually really do love my Step-mom a lot.

Like I guess this is good enough to keep me from committing suicide and cutting so deep I need stitches but it keeps me screaming inside that I am in pain and nothing is helping. Help me help me help me I’m dying.

The Cost of Self-Destructive Coping Strategies: You engage in unsafe sexual activity, like unprotected sex or sex with strangers

This is about Nick. Nick will probably never read this and I hope he never well because I’m going to be saying not so nice things about him.

He’s a friend that Aunna made while working at King Soopers and he stays a constant friend. Sorta. He was a constant friend before we had sex. Why did he and I have sex? I was questioning my sexuality. Nah, still not bisexual. Totally a lesbian. But the first time we had sex awakened a new self-destructive coping-mechanism.

Nick now only ever contacts me first if he wants to get his dick wet. I am now his sex toy. I allow it. I love the attention. I really love the attention. He doesn’t stay the cuddle, he doesn’t stay to talk. He doesn’t stay to be friends, he leaves right after.

I never tell him no.

Aunna is aware of this. At first she was fine with it but now she’s not. She tells him no for me.

But when I say yes she doesn’t get mad at me.

It’s better than cutting myself or taking a handful of pills. (two handfuls actually. I am prescribed a handful of pills to take morning and night) Okay maybe it would take me three handfuls now to do anything.

But regardless… I am a sex toy. I use sex to destroy myself. I am a slut. I am nothing. Fucking kill me.




Do you know what a Sin-Eater is? I first heard, well, read the term in Amanda Palmer’s book the Art of Asking and started seeing my therapists as Sin-Eaters. They take my sorrows and my sins and they release them out, if I let them. Many sessions I still carry those woes on my shoulders as I leave their offices with fake smiles and joyful thanks. But I end up just feeling crappy all over. They ask “are you depressed.” “Yes.” “Are you suicidal.” “…no.” A lie. Of course. As much as I crave the attention I get when I’m sent to the hospital, I also don’t want the unwanted “ugh again” attention. But anyways… what is a Sin-Eater?

A sineater is a person who consumes a ritual meal in order to magically take on the sins of a person or household. Traditionally, the food was believed to absorb the sins of a recently deceased person, thus absolving that person’s soul.

But did I sin? I guess I did. Premarital sex, homosexuality, attempting suicide, self-harm…

Things that I don’t see as sins.

Therapists are Sorrow-Eaters. They don’t do a ritualistic meal but they take on people’s sorrows so those who have them can feel lighter.

Why don’t I ever feel any lighter?
Why do I lie every time to my therapist asks if I’m okay?
I am not okay.
I am suicidal.
I am not safe.

God this is hard to write, but I don’t think anyone gets the severity of what happened to me. I want people to know to understand. But no one ever lets me go into detail and when they do all I can say is “it fucked me up”
I need to write it out.
I need to speak.
But I can’t.

I’m staring at this screen trying to find the words. I’ve switched from laptop to phone while writting this in need to hide away. I want to die. Will anyone take me seriously. Does anyone hear me? Or do I have to make a dramatic gesture?

I was raped. More than once. By three different people. One of them raped me many times. Countless. 

Damien raped me on April 22nd 2006


I forgave it because I owed him, didn’t I? He took me to see my favorite band. The next day he took my “virginity” I guess. I was sexually active with women at 14 but he was proud of being my first guy. 

Turned out he and his best friend made a bet who would give it up first, me or my friend who was dating his best friend. 

Guess I lost. This all sounds like I’m just regretting losing it and I’m calling it rape but when you have sex it shouldn’t hurt. You shouldn’t feel terror. You shouldn’t have been saying no and be ignored as he continues to undress you and touch you as you hold back tears.

He told everyone so I faked smiled and told people too. I’d cut myself even harder where people couldn’t see unless I stood nude before them. 

It was only a week before Damien stripped me again, saw the cuts. Punished me. I would cut again once I got home. Week later he would see again and the cycle continued. 

Why didn’t I leave him? 

We started dating February 12 2006, he had more than two months to whisper sweet things to me like “no one will love you like I do” and repeat what my voices said every day. I’m not good enough unless I’m with him. I’m not smart but I don’t need to be because I’m with him. I’m not pretty, I should be lucky to be with him. I had some form of Stockholm Syndrome before he even fucked me. 

He liked to hit me. Not in front of our friends, except for that one time when I was about to walk into the middle of traffic, but he wasn’t doing it to snap me out of it. He was doing it to punish me. 

He always punished me. With words. With his hands. With blades. Yelling at me until I begged him for forgiveness. He was all I wanted because I didn’t know any better. I never wanted to have sex with him. Never once. I would play that I would to make him happy. But never once… On the every other Saturday for two and a half years that I spent in his bedroom did I ever say yes to sex. No. I was raped at least 100 times by him. Scared into it. Threatened into it. Feeling like I owed him because he was the only one able to love me. 

Now I know he’s wrong. I am happily married to a woman I love. Who truly loves me. 

But the damage is there. It’s done. 

I’m fucking suffering. 

Why Did I Turn To You?: An exploration of my recent dreams and past relationship

My dreams have been weird lately. Not the usual violent re-imaginings of what he did or strange dreams that I forget once I opened my eyes. But these dreams these past few days I remember well into the day and hold onto because I want to know what they mean.

They start in my old High School but now it’s an Psych Ward. I’m in my usual Psych Ward outfit of PJ’s and sweaters and those socks with the no slick on the bottom. The fellow patients is my friend group from High School. Even the people I hate now. Even those who I’m still friends with. With my wife. Even Damien.

But Damien is nice to me. Very nice. I’m even dating him in the dream. A Harley drawn to her abusive Joker. But there was no abuse. The smiling demon was kind, gentle, all that I wanted him to be. All that he was in front of people (except when he obviously was not, my good friends telling me to leave him) But he was brighter. He even dressed brighter, not in the style I was usually attracted to. It’s a joke, my mind is trying to tell me that dark and broody is not good. Go for the guys who wear polo shirts and khakis. Which is bullshit. I’m not attracted to males any more, and even if I was, I like my dark and broody and Gothic. (just how I like my women and in betweens.)

But dating within the hospital is very very very against the rules. (has been at every hospital I’ve been sent to) ((though I know two couples who meet at one and continue the relationship on the outside. Successfully too)) But I guess in dream world no one cares. The couples from High School are still coupled. We sit in the same spots in the now “Day room” that we did back then. The huge windows now blinded so we can’t see outside, denied our sunshine and any idea of the weather. In one dream I looked out them and saw absolutely nothing, like we were in a vacuum. Which I guess we were. We never had visitors. We never had doctors. We never had nurses. We were in perpetual group therapy with no leaders.

I had my current diagnoses and everyone called me a liar. “Look at your boyfriend, he’s so sweet to you, he’s never raped you.” “He’s never hit you, we’ve all been watching.” “He would never lie to you.” “Liar.” Liar” “LIAR!” And then it echoes and repeats and maybe that’s why I can’t listen to Liar by Emilie Autumn, although it used to be me calling Damien a Liar. It was my song for him. Thank you EA.

But now I hear it in my head, doubting my memories. I was on Ativan, which makes you forget things. I guess? Not quite sure how it works. All I know for sure is that when I took half a bottle I lost an entire day. (and was hospitalized. This was November 2016)

All I know is that I’m starting to doubt myself. Was I raped? Was I raped as a child? Was I raped at 15? Was it repeatedly? Can I trust myself?

Cutting Diary 1/31/17

I finished carving Monster into my thigh. The T I made into a huge inverted cross because I’m edgy. I wish I knew how to carve into my flesh with smooth roundness. Make my O and S and R less slashery. But I suppose it fits my status as a monster. 

My mom, step mom, is mad at me today. She’s actually not mad but is generally upset and snapped at me. So I reacted by laying in bed and doing nothing. 

All I want to do is sleep. I put on makeup just for it to get smeared on my pillow. For my eyes to cry black down my cheeks. I’m a fucking nutcase. A fucking stereotype. A fucking teenage girl even though I’m grown and don’t fall on the gender binary. (though all anyone ever sees is girl) 

It’s dark outside. 

I want to play in traffic but I can’t even move from my bed until absolutely necessary. 

How long until nessessary things don’t even get me moving? 

Cutting Diary 1/28/17 & 1/29/17 + more

So I went quite a bit of time without cutting. But I spent a lot of that time picking scabs because I’m clutzy and scrapped up my knees pretty badly (in my favorite striped stockings.) But last night and this morning I went back to carving “Monster” on my left leg again. Everything had faded and didn’t scar except for the first line in the M. I have this true obsession picking at my skin. Picking at hang-nails and watching the blood line my nail. I love blood. I love watching myself bleed.
I am a monster. My personality is a monster. That’s how it feels having a personality disorder. My bipolar and I are on good terms. It’s medicated and I ride that wave with grace. It’s not gone but it’s there because I am it. No matter how many times people will tell me I am not it, I am it. Fuck the lies. But my BPD and I… we are not friends. It’s why I feel like my friends keep their distance. Why I feel like no one likes talking to me. It’s all so forced. My PTSD is ignored. People talk about being medicated for it and I’m not being medicated for it. Is my PTSD a lie then? Then why tell me I have it?
I stopped going to my trauma therapist. Just as she predicted if I was truly Borderline. Showed her didn’t I?
I stopped going to ACA… I only went to the one meeting but the cost of the books I was required to have??? We don’t have the money for that.
I feel empty of words of things I wanted to talk about the past…month. But I didn’t. I was either too lazy or uninspired. But I’ve been reading a lot. At least I’m doing something, even though it’s curled up in bed or on the couch or in the car with all the driving I’ve been having to do this past month.

My asshole of a Psychiatrist has upped my medication and added an anti-depressant.  Effexor. Fuck me, I was under the impression that you don’t put bipolar people on anti-depressants. That it makes them either manic or depressed. I’m depressed. So depressed that I feel like I need to be hospitalized. But I’ve been hospitalized sooo many times now I feel like no one takes it seriously. Let’s see how far I fall before I attempt again. Maybe this time I’ll die. Then maybe they’ll believe me then.

I am in a crisis and no I am too stubborn to self sooth or use any of the DBT skills that I’ve relearned and relearned again and again. No. They feel like band-aids. I know exactly what to do but I don’t do it. I am self destructive. I have no love of life. It’ll be better on everyone if I was dead. You can tell me that these are lies my head is telling me but they scream as truths and drown you all out. No amount of telling me that you love me and want me to live will keep me living. No amount of self help books will keep me breathing.

I guess I’m just lucky I have no plan right now. I just am willing myself to waste away as I sit here at my computer staring off, keeping my fingers busy. Or as I lay in bed, surrounded by cats as I try to sleep so I don’t have to face the nightmare of being awake.

Truth of the matter is that I’m being triggered by Damien constantly through my waking hours. Every thing reminds me of him and the pain that people aren’t grasping. It wasn’t a one time rape while I enjoyed every other sexual encounter with him. It was a rape. Another rape. A continuous rape until I was stuck with him believing that only he could love me. So I loved him. Because I was scared into loving him. Hating every time he touched me but running to him to be touched because he utterly convinced me that no one else would ever love me. Punished by him every time I hurt myself because I was scared.

I felt so alone.
And some how I still feel so alone even though I do have true love. The mental disorders makes me feel alone and I need to fight it but I just can’t any more. I just can’t. I’m sick of swallowing a handful of prescribed pills twice a day and one in the afternoon. It’s ripping up my insides. Upsetting my stomach. My eyes hurt. I’m taking medication to help with the side effects of the other medication.

I’m told that I’m psychotic. Then I’m told I’m not.
I’m told that I’m severally mentally ill. Then I’m told I’m not.
What am I? Why am I?
Take me seriously!
Stop telling me lies!
Let me have my fucking choice to end my life god damn it. Why is having control over my own life such a crime?
Why is hurting myself, which I use to release the tension of my suicidal idealization such a crime.
My choice. My body.
Oh but I know how much that’s a lie. My body belongs to the government which may no longer protect my health and I’ll lose my medications, lose my therapist, and then truly be out of my fucking mind and not held back. Not able to go to the psych ward.
Maybe it’ll be a blessing and I can finally die.

Cutting Diary 12/13/16

My whole left side stings. It’s keeping me from floating off and away. Keeping me real. 

I cut my thigh. My arm. Up and down. I didn’t count them. I just… Kept going until the song Anakin’s Betrayal ended. Now I’m lying in bed listening to all of my music in the dark. Shaking. Shaking as I type on my phone. Waiting for Aunna to get home. I look like a real mess. 

I’m trying to cry but instead I bleed. Bleeding my sorrow out I guess. Clense me of pain and make me real. 

Make me real

Cutting Diary 12/12/16 tw: cutting photo 

Don’t let them throw me away

Am I real? I don’t feel real. 

I’m losing myself again. Too big for my skin. Itching and pulling at my insides. 

I can’t sleep

I want to peel my skin off

Take someone elses life and be them for awhile. 

I don’t want to be me any more. 

“Throw Me Away”

Flesh wound, flesh wound
With medication it will fade
Should I assume
That someone hears me when I pray?

Love, full of hate
Don’t you love how I break?

Don’t let them throw me away
Keep me and I’ll be okay
Skipping a beat but it plays
Don’t let them throw me away
Don’t let them throw me away

Screwed up, used up
Crumpled, lying on the floor
Fucked up, shut up
All you did back then was score

I’m feeling weak
Missing parts, incomplete


Hold me up into the light
Fix the cracks and fix them right
Keep the pieces in the drawer
Keep them there forever more
May come in use for some day
Recycle this shit in some way
And all that I have to say
Don’t let them throw me away


– Korn

I hurt myself today Cutting diary 12/4/16

Self Harm – “Nonsuicidal selfinjury, often simply called selfinjury, is the act of deliberately harming the surface of your own body, such as cutting or burning yourself. It’s typically not meant as a suicide attempt. Rather, this type of selfinjury is an unhealthy way to cope with emotional pain, intense anger and frustration.”

It’s more than that. Self harm is any act that hurts you. Physically. Emotionally. Relationship wise. 

Sex can be self harm.

I’m gay but not one of those “gold star lesbians” (oh gods I hate that term) but I would have sex with men for money. I’m just using my body as a tool. Tonight I used it as a tool to get back my Star Wars dvds from a “friend”.

Simply asking him to hang out didn’t work so I told him I was horny (which I wasn’t) and faked orgasming with him. But hey I got my dvds back. 

I hate myself

Tonight I picked on Aunna, my wife, trying to get her to play. I hurt her. I pinched and pulled and scratched until she hit me. And hit me. Hit me until I laughed and laughed. 

Finally I was punished. 

I still want to hurt myself. I still want to die. I would love to not wake up. 

I would love to sneak off, find the key to the medicine cabnit and down a whole lot of pills but I can’t because everyone is sick of my shit. I need to pretend to be okay. 

I’m not okay. Not at all.