6.32

I'm tired to be the one who's always asking how everyone's doing.

I have no one.
I always try to be the shoulder to lean on, but at times like this, whose shoulder I'm gonna lean on to?

:(

Fucks abt Me

Fact #1462737377484

I love looking at old photos of dead people. Those that are called "Memento Mori," or "Recuerdo/s de patay," "Post-mortem photography."

There is always the uneasiness, the anxiety, or the "chills running down the spine" as I look at them but there is also the satisfaction, the amazement, the awe. Andun yung pakiramdam na parang nandun ka mismo sa loob ng litrato. And I love the feeling of nostalgia it gives me. It has always been a dream, a wonder, how it felt like living in the late centuries.

Old photos are amazing in general. :)

Draft. Cut.

It has been a decade since I first cut. I was depressed, I felt alone, and I dont understand how empty I have been feeling. Saw a blade, took it, and the thought just briefly crossed my mind "how would it feel if I cut myself?"
And before I could think rationally, I was already slicing open my left arm. And when it was over, I couldnt count the number of cuts I made. I felt relieved. I felt light. But I felt scared at the same time. I was confronted by the fact that "no normal people would harm themselves." I didnt know anything then. I didn't know what mental illness is. I just knew what i felt; the sadness, the emptiness, the suicide ideation, the intrusive toughts and I knew I have to make myself feel better. And cutting made me feel better.

I hid it from my family. But it was hard. Living in a tropical country, you can't use long sleeves all the time. My father saw them. So did my mom. The first words to escape from my father's lips were "are you on drugs?" I said no. I didnt explain why I did that. Because, how? How would you explain to someone or make them understand how physical pain can make you feel better? Because at that time, I didnt even know exactly how that happens. They told me never to do that again. I was still a kid back then. So I did what I was told.

The depression never stopped though. And as much as I wanted another relief, I just cant do it. So I tried sucking it up. Tried everything to make the "sadness" go away, and everything that comes with it. But it doesn't. It stayed. And every time it stays, it gets worse. Sucking it up was hard. I wish spitting it out was an option.

When I was in college, I was no longer stable. Depression invited its friends; Anxiety, Panics, Anger, and who knows what else. Everything just went downhill. My studies were affected. I transferred schools twice, until I no longer wanted to go. I quit college.

During one of my college days, there was a time when I could no longer hold it in. I knew I have to do it. Make myself feel better. Get ahold of my emotions. Take over. Take control. And again, I took the needle of a syringe and slash it a lot of times across my arm. I could feel the same sting, the same feeling of relief. I felt better. I no longer tried hiding it from my family. My classmates thought it was weird. They called me "emo." I didnt care. It was what made me feel better, it was what kept me alive. My survival was my priority. So I ignored everything they said. I ignored every smirk, every offensive comments, every laugh they threw at me. I needed this. They wouldn't understand, they weren't in my shoes. They weren't the ones fighting a battle you can't win. They don't see my demons, couldn't hear, and sure as hell don't know how it was breaking me apart.

I live in a country where "everyone is happy." No matter what the situation people are in, they always have this "happy go lucky" attitude. Always being positive about things. People in my country always have that smile plastered in their faces. So the stigma regarding mental illness is high. When you are down, you are expected to laugh it all off and you'll feel better. Not slice your arms or anywhere in your body.

Since then, I never stopped cutting. It has become a habit. An addiction. I cut when I'm depressed, and I even cut without any reason besides just wanting to cut. I have scars everywhere. I once tried stopping it. Counted the days I was clean, set goals, and rewarded myself whenever I reach them. But then I'd relapse, and think of the whole counting as bullshit. What's the point of counting if I'd just go back to doing it every fucking time. Everything felt like it was just worthless.

I thought I was the only one in the whole world doing it. Until a few years back when I've learned about mental illnesses, and cutting, and everything that I realized that I wasn't alone. That i wasnt the only one fighting a war with myself. And though that was a sad thing, I felt happy a bit. I met a lot of people with the same condition. People who I could relate to, people who could understand me. I have gained friends. And we helped each other out. And that was one of the best things to come out of this.

Am I worth it?

Think about the times when you did anything and everything for someone,
when youve bawled your eyes out for them,
the times when youve sacrificed a lot for them even if they hurt you,
because you love them and they're worth it.

Are they?