Sorry

Hello Journal, 

It is currently 3:38 am in the morning and I can’t sleep. Again. 

I thought it was supposed to get easier? I thought some part of me would be getting over this, getting over it all, finally, but I can’t. I must be even more broken then they all thought. It figures. I tried so hard, I really did, but nothing helped, none of the tricks they said to use, nothing blocked the little words trickling their way into my brain. The words came back and now it’s late and it’s night and I can’t sleep and nobody is texting back and I’m all alone, alone again, just like I always am and and and-- Right. Breathing. That’s important. I wish I could call someone right now. The phone doesn’t always work, but it’s nice sometimes to hear a comforting voice wrapping around me and squeezing all the little demon shadows out. They’ll never leave for good though. Those little demons are a part of me, and there’s too many to get rid of entirely. They always come back, and they always wait until it’s late, and it’s dark, and the walls are closing in on me and suffocating me before they trail their little bloodstained fingers along my throat and whisper words of endless suffering in my ears, sending shivers up my spine. There is only one way to get rid of them, one way to make them leave but I won’t do it. I promised him, promised them, I wouldn’t. I will not. I will be strong.

 I wish I could call him. I wish I could pick up the phone and hear his voice, his warm warm warm voice in my ears, pushing out the words of ice and tears. I want him right now. But I can’t have him, which is why I am writing in this sorry excuse for a journal they gave me. “It’ll help.” they said, all those idiots who have no idea, none at all, what it feels like to curl up on the floor, shaking, always shaking, because the words are piling up, the shadows are consuming the brain and the words you thought you could fight are too many, too fast, like little trickles of sand slowly building up until you realize you’re drowning in piles and piles of sand and dust and you're panicking and you can’t breathe, you can’t breathe. That’s the worst part. Like, your body decided to kill itself before you do. I am putting the phone down, I promise. I will not call him. He has a statistics test tomorrow. He needs sleep. ‘So do you…’ whispers the little voice of reason. ‘So do you…’ But I am ignoring it. I will be fine. Most of my life occurs on a severe lack of sleep anyway. I’m used to it by now; life will always roll on, always keep going. I will be fine. I don’t want to be a burden again. I don’t want to be the reason he fails again. I will not hold him back, I will not. I’m fine. Absolutely fine. Absolutely GET OFF OF ME DEMONS. FUCKING GO AWAY! I will not let you hurt him through me anymore! GO AWAY! I am not holding the knife. I am not. I am not, definitely not; I am not panicking, I am not shaking, I am not losing the grip of this pencil in my sweaty palms, am not scared, am not terrified, am not going to do it I AM NOT! I can’t I won’t I can’t I- I- I- I am breathing and the phone is on the floor and oh god here we go again not again, please not again, I’ll call him I swear please let the phone work, I’m sorry I threw it at the wall but I can’t do it without him and I can’t see if the screen is even working the tears are too blurry and why the hell am I still writing this? I can’t call him. I’m screwed. At least somebody will be able to read this, read my panicked last words, spiraling out through this pencil and I can’t wait anymore, I can’t hold back, I’m breaking, I’m breaking, I’m breaking I-- 

Shit. shit shit shit. This is not good. Not good not good not good. Sorry about that journal, I’m back. And totally not panicking. Definitely not panicking. Definitely not bleeding, definitely not out of concealer for the cuts tomorrow. Shit. What did I do? What did I do to deserve these demons that run away, like the little cowards they are, through the streams of blood in neat, lined cuts, running down my arm. Always running, everything is always running, or maybe it’s just my mind, drunk on the pain and pleasure that follows these episodes, drunk on the idea of a few minutes of silence, blissful running silence. I’m sorry for whatever it is! I’m sorry! I’m sorry. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop, sorry I never stop, sorry I’m weak and useless, sorry I broke the phone and had a panic attack and cut and cut while he lies at home asleep. I’m sorry. I didn't mean to. Now I’ll have to pass him tomorrow and he’ll know I did something, he’ll see it in my eyes and he’ll pull me aside and he’ll feel guilty because I didn't call him, because he wasn’t there and I never want him to feel guilty, never, and he’ll apologize but it’s not his fault. It’s never his fault and it never will be. It’s me. It’s my fault. I’m the weak link, the failure, the useless pathetic, half excuse of a human being and maybe I deserve to die. I would die, but it’ll hurt him and I never wanted to hurt him. I don’t wish I could die. I just wish I could sort of maybe fade, fade into a million little pieces of dust and float away, and maybe just cease to exist, cease to bring pain, cease to be. That would be nice, I think, to be dust. I could stop hurting, stop bearing pain, and just float. Floating sounds nice. 

Sorry for yet another night of pain, I swear the entries will get positive some day. 

(I hope.)

Addison.