I Want To Burn Myself

I'm having a bad way of things this week. Between dreams, lack of sleep, my medication, and work I'm overwhelmed and swimming in depression. I should be happy. I should be dancing around and excited it's Friday. Tomorrow we have plans to go to a local farmers market, get some awesome ice cream, have amazing food but all I feel is awful. Awful isn't even the right word for what has come over me. Right now, at the very moment I'm typing this, tears are rolling down my face and I have no idea why. I can't hold back, there's no stopping them. I'm not thinking any one thought that should be making me cry, but here I am. Crying. Hurting.

Which only makes me feel worse about myself—weak—pathetic. Terms I use often to yell at myself mentally because growing up crying wasn't allowed. Dani couldn't handle tears, I think they made her feel guilty. If I cried first she tried to smooth in a soft voice for all of three seconds. After that didn't work came the yelling, name calling, berating comments. She doesn't need to be here for me to feel awful about crying, I do it to myself now. Not that I want to make myself feel worse. That's not something I need any help doing, but it's a programmed response I live with. It's in the very fiber of my being and I can't turn it off.

It's at these moments, when I'm sinking under the waves and welcomed into the deep blues of shadows, that I want to reach out. I need to write about this stuff and post it, but I don't. I'm too ashamed, and like many people with depression I get a sense I'm being a bother to everyone. I'm fully expecting to post this and get eye-rolls from people saying, “Oh god, here she goes again. Can't this girl move on from this shit?”

Problem is, I can't. Moving on—living a real life—that would be ideal, but I can't. I'm not using the “I can't” as a grounds to hold myself back, I really can't. There is too much, the pain runs too deep. I called this blog Scars From Mom, but really nothing has scarred over yet. It's still all bleeding—festering in the depths of my being. Nothing has dulled, the stings are still fresh.

Currently I'm at a stand still in my life. I'm wandering around in circles and can't find my way out. People tell me how jealous they are of my life—of my abilities—how talented I am. I hate when people say that because it makes me feel even worse, like I don't appreciate what I have. I know that's not what they mean, and it's good to hear compliments I'm just not used to them. All week I haven't felt talented, skilled, lucky. . . Right at this moment I have the thought stuck in my head that I'm the biggest failure in the world. Everything I've ever tried to do I come up short, and it's simply fulfilling my mother's ideals that what I like to do will never bring me success.

Do I like drawing, yes. I used to enjoy it very much, I could lose an entire day sketching. When I pick up my pencil I'm in my own little world, beautiful, lively, and all mine. Not anymore. Now when I pick up a pencil or open a file I think of all those artist infinitely better than me. People that are able to dedicate themselves more heavily to their passion. People who have followers that pay to see their work, buy their prints, and share the crap out of their work. Artist that have fan bases who love what they do. I've been drawing and sharing my work for two decades and I don't have that. I make next to no money for my hard-work because I'm uncomfortable with my skill level, and awkward about charging clients what I should. I don't have fans willing to tip me, or pay to see exclusive content. Dani was right, I will never make any money with art.

I do other things, sure. I make jewelry that no one buys, and little crystal and wire trees. I've created coloring book pages no one really buys either. I write books that never go anywhere because I'm too scared to do proper marketing, and wasted my money on people that took advantage of my timid nature. Leaving me with nothing. I can't put together two sentences without feeling crushing defeat.

I paint, sew, garden, cook and yet I feel so damn useless. So worthless that as I was cooking breakfast this morning I wanted to lay my arm against the burning hot pan. I wanted to feel something other than this misery and physical pain was my first choice. I didn't, so don't worry but the thought is still lingering away in my head. I still want to burn myself, a quick thought of taking a serrated knife to my wrists crossed my mind. Just a thought, not an impulse to do. Yes, I'm currently having suicidal thoughts, but I'm no where near the point I would actually try. If I was I have people I will call.

Today, I'm sick of trying. . . I'm tired of keeping my head above water and looking back to see little to no progress. I'm sick of being sick—mentally—physically. I don't want to take any more pills, I don't want to put on one more fake smile. I don't want to be pleasant so people don't see how awful I am inside. My mind is in turmoil and my body heavy with distress. I don't know what to do with myself, what do you do with a useless pile of shit?

#Depression #SelfHarm #IWantToBurnMyself #Struggling #Failure #Loser

~Jax~