It's the shot of pain that puts me in pure Ecstasy to crave more. More self inflicted wounds after another. Later, feeling the pain fade, the Ecstasy slowly being replaced with hope. Hope that maybe I won't screw up this time on whatever I did wrong. Hope that no one will find out the truth behind my wounds and scars. Hope that maybe one day, just one day, I will get better. Seven years later and the Ecstasy is gone. Replaced with self hatred. Hope is gone. Replaced with anxiety. Anxious of the fact that mom will find my blade. Anxious that someone will look and know I self harmed once again. Anxious my family will figure out its not accidental and send me to another hospital. Waiting, for myself to let go. To sleep. Forever.
YOU ARE READING
Not Feeling Life
Non-FictionTRIGGER WARNING I don't know if people will like the way I'm doing this. So basically, I'm diagnosed with depression, anxiety, insomnia, and an unknown mood disorder. Since I'm diagnosed with these things, therapy is a weekly thing for me. Yet, the...
