Cutters, Emo, and Real Life

I never thought I would understand cutters. You know, the ‘freaks’ who cut themselves over and over again.

Until tonight, now I understand them. When you get to that point where you do start cutting yourself, you’ve hit a bottom. When you seek out physical pain to make the emotional/psychological pain go away or at least not be so bad. I understand it now and I can completely sympathize with them.

Many things in my life are going well. I’m in a stable place to live, I have a full time job that pays me decently, and I’m getting back on my feet.

There are many things that *aren’t* going well. My diabetes is not well controlled. I still feel like I’m a complete and utter failure in living my own life. I flunked out of college *twice*. I’m living with friends at the age of 33. I barely can make ends meet. I’m a loser.

I want a place of my own with a door. Someplace where I can have some privacy and where I don’t have to listen to my roommates and more importantly, my life isn’t a showcase for them. I want to have a roommate who isn’t moody, doesn’t hold the fact that I have friends and do things without them against me, then when they need/want something, plays all nicey-nice.

I have a lot of anger built up...and I can’t release it. I have so much self-hatred built up...and can’t release it but I do believe it. All I have to do is look around me, and I know I’ve failed myself. I’ve not done anything religious in months because I don’t have any place that I feel comfortable practicing my beliefs.

Yeah, I’m sounding like an emo kid. Ya know what. Pain isn’t beautiful. Pain slowly kills you from the inside. Pain is what makes people go postal...or go off the deep end...or go kill themselves.

The saddest part of it all. As I sit here thinking about getting help and/or checking myself in to a mental health treatment program, I just hear an evil laughing in my head...telling me that “yeah, yer a failure. You can’t even cope with reality. What makes you think it’ll work? You still suck.”
Tomorrow is another day at work. I can’t just take a week or two off work for my mental health. I won’t have a job when I get out.

Why do I keep breathing? I don’t have a choice in the matter do I?

I can’t bring myself to commit suicide. Not because of me, I know I’m not worth it, but I can’t do it because of my friends. The ones who think I’m someone special, who supposedly see all these wonderful things in me. They are the ones I can’t hurt. Instead, like I always have, I keep my pain inside. Slowly dying from within, so that others don’t have to deal with my pain.