The struggling mind of the mentally ill
A little journal of somebody struggling. Trigger warning.
I hate myself.
I hate how I look. I hate that my belly isn’t flat. My bum isn’t big. My breasts aren’t perky. I hate the scars my body carries. The ones from picking at scabs too much. The ones from accidents. The ones from self harm. I hate the memories they hold of times when I couldn’t take it anymore. I hate their ability to send me spiralling into dispose when I look at them for too long. I hate that one evening of being alone can make me feel so hopeless and crave having a knife in hand to take my frustrations out on my body. I hate that I have to constantly ask loved ones for validation and reassurance that I actually matter to them. I hate that my insecurities have pushed people away. I hate that I freak out when I feel clueless. I hate that I need to know loved ones plans all the time. I hate that I need to be in control. I hate that I never have motivation. I hate that I live in a dump and never manage to clean it. I hate that I rely on everyone else all the time. I hate that I have no independence. I hate that I want to end it all. I hate that I can’t bring myself to.
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