Vent Entries

Who would've thought you can get survivors guilt about your past self?

TRIGGER WARNINGS: suicidal thoughts, self harm, depression, scars, death.
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At 15 I thought I'd kill myself.

I thought I wouldn't make it out of high school, and if I could go back and talk to my 15-year-old self I wouldn't be telling her that "it gets better", or some other shit. I'd be fucking apologising, because when she got her first bad episode of depression, and when she took a blade to her skin for the first fucking time, it wasn't just scars on her skin she left; it was scars on her fucking soul.

So, I'm sorry, past me. I'm sorry that every story you ever wrote about how when some fictional character would rescue you, will never come  true. And I'm sorry that the innocence you had (what little remained by age 15) died.

Because you died. I killed you.

15-year-old Me is dead. Every past version of her is dead, and I am the goddamn animated corpse that's just barely self-aware enough to realise I have been living in their body. I'm not the same person.

In the end, past me, I guess that you really didn't make it out of high school. Because a part of you died there, and the rest of you succumbed to your fucking injuries soon after.

Every past version of me is dead, and I am what's fucking left. A zombie in my own skin...

People say 'suicide is a cowards way out' but if you're too goddamn cowardly to commit it in the first place?!

what happens then?

I'll tell you what happens. what happens is you wind up growing up and losing what innocence have you had, but still keep those memories you had of every dark day stored in your fucking brain, and you remember every place you ever walked, every room you ever stepped foot in, every peice of skin you ever cut with those blades you hid in your bedroom that you used to cut with.

There are rusted blades hidden somewhere in the room I'm sitting in right now, that I haven't touched in years.  I don't even remember where I put them, but I know they're here.

Past me, if I was ever able to see you again to talk to you,  I would tell you a couple of things:

One: no one is going to rescue you.  And there are days where you will not be able to rescue yourself.  you will suffer, and you will cry, and you will hurt yourself, and you will scream to the sky for someone to come save you.  I'm telling you right fucking now that no one will.

Two: cherish the fucking time you have with your grandma, favourite aunt and dog, because in the year 2020, at 23 fucking years old, in less than 3 months, all three of them will die- gone- that's it! The only three family members you care about, the only family you consider to BE family, one after another, will die. you will be angry- so fucking angry- And you will only now understand when looking in the bathroom mirror in the house you hate, that no amount of time is going to make these wounds less raw. you're fucked.

Three: you might as well stop reading romance novels now, kid. Real relationships aren't like that (not that you've been in many by age 23). Don't bother looking for the perfect person right now. we don't even know what gender we are more attracted to, or what gender we want to go by. Romance is more goddamn confusing than the 10th Doctor trying to explain Time to Donna fucking Noble from Doctor Who.

Four: you won't love yourself. ever. self-love for us might not EVEN exist! one day, you'll look in the mirror and take a rare nice selfie, and yet, the next day, you'll try to claw your eyes out because you hate the way one eye is more squinted than the other. And if People say "you can't love someone else until you love yourself", I want you to know right now that that's utter bullshit. you don't have to love yourself. You don't even have to like yourself; as long as you somehow are able to tolerate the body you're in, made of flesh and bone and blood...then who the fuck cares?

Five: I'm sorry. I'm sorry past me, for the shit storm that will happen you. You won't kill yourself at 15 or 16 or 17 and when you graduate high school, you'll wonder how the fuck you manage that, and then at 23 years old, you'll somehow graduate college, and suddenly realise you STILL have no goddamn clue what to do with your life any more than you did at 15.

So, I'm sorry past me. Because, in the end, we did kill ourselves in a way. Because I can never be you again.

I can never sit in that stupid fucking lunchroom in high school and look up Sherlock "fanfiction" on AO3 (because Sherlock wind up sucking in season three and four, so don't even bother watching those). The only friend you'll still have at 23 that you did at 15 is grown up and doesn't need you anymore,  and is getting married to her high school boyfriend and barely talks to you.

In the end, past me, I know that me saying "sorry" is not EVER going to be good enough.  you are going to go through so much shit.

And as I stare at the mirror, I'm finally realising that you did die. I did kill you, and you were a motherfucking CHILD, and you didn't deserve it!

you won't go to London in senior year of high school, and the promises people make to you are bullshit, just like the promises you make to other people are bullshit too.

You are dead, and I am what's left, and believe me, I know it's not much.

So, past me, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for so much shit that I will never be able to make up for, but you were a child and I destroyed you. I destroyed a lot of things...

Who would've thought you can get survivors guilt about your past self?