Fragments Of A Broken Mind

Mental Health Week (or month) runs in early October, with dates varied depending on location. During October, YFH will use its platform to raise awareness on the issue. Get help here. If you’d like to share your story, anonymously or openly, click here. It will help someone.
_________

Ed. note: These are selected thoughts from the journals of a woman we will call M, written in her teenage years when she was locked in a deep struggle with depression, anxiety and suicidal thoughts. Since then, M has been diagnosed with ADD and ASD, and has chosen to put together some of the writings she found when looking through her old art journals.

As part of Mental Health Month, she has offered these fragments of her soul to YFH as an open and honest account of the thoughts of a very sad teenage girl to herself, describing it as “a blunt look into the mind of someone suffering”. If you’ve ever thought of someone as selfish for wanting to commit suicide, this article might help you understand why they feel this way. YFH thanks M for her bravery.

We are all broken. That’s how the light gets in.
Ernest Hemingway.

a) SUICIDE

It is an ugly word. A quiet word. A very sad, sorry word. We take our seats and listen. We do not act. It is too late for that. The time has passed. Thoughts useless, gestures empty. Another light blinks, but this one has left. Grey walls and more quiet, ugly words. Small, simple words. No need for eloquence, beautiful words have no place here. Not in this night, not on this day. The only thoughts are incoherent, the only looks are into empty space. Eyes hold only sorrow, only confusion, only a motionless gaze of everything there is and nothing in particular. Dead. Dead. Suicidal. The breath that leaves the lips is the coldest. The last. The finality of everything that is. Disturbs. Disturbs the careful equilibrium and the beating hearts, the veins of the body and the earth. It is an ugly word.

b)
Lights flicker and fade, someone screams into the black night. A mother locks the front door with baited breath. A bearded man wraps an itchy blanket around him and remembers when he had a bed and his family loved him. The dark night is filled with unsung troubles and arguments behind closed doors.

So why do I think I’m so special, why do I spend all my time in my own head. Pretending the troubles of the world don’t exist, feeling sorry for myself and throwing my life away for no reason other than I can’t think of a better idea. How can I act like the world isn’t real just because I fear it

c)

Noises make me flinch.
My mind won’t understand words.
I make my way forward inch by inch.
The rationality of a startled bird.

d)

I confuse people sometimes, with what I say and do.
How can I be so excitable, yet always feel so blue.
How can I explain my illness, when they’re denying it.
Sailors on a ship in the storm, not happy to die but resigned to their fate.
It simply feels that death is the inevitable,
and when you’ve decided that maybe life isn’t so great,
it’s hard to know what you want to do as opposed to what you should.
I’m trying but I feel so dead.
I know I have to keep living but I don’t know how.

 

e)

I’m fine.
The words leave my lips so the questions will end.
Why do people keep asking?
Maybe it’s because I look as empty as I feel, maybe it’s just a habit.
I’m not though, I’m not fine.
But what’s the use in saying otherwise?
What are they supposed to reply, sorry?
What can they do?
My entire being feels blurred, out of place.
Even in a world that seems odd and darkly fantastical
my hands shake and my heart beats in my ears
frail yet persistent, reminding me of my tender mortality
but at the same time the fear that shoots through my veins is nothing.
Why should I care?
What is there to care about?
So I’m fine.
Because I don’t care if you know,
and you can’t care if you know nothing.
Not that I’m sure you would.
So I’m fine.
I don’t think I’ll kill myself.
The thought seems disgustingly violent,
only sometimes it doesn’t.
I don’t want to kill myself
but the thought of continuing to exist is exhausting.
I am truly exhausted.
I want to be fine,
but i don’t think I am.

f)

All this pain and nothing to show for it.
All these tears and nothing to cry over.
I’m trapped by nothing but my own confused mind.
My bedroom is my prison cell, and the lock and key nonexistent.
My eyes stare forward.
The white of the wall holds my attention for longer than it should.
Escape seems simple, a few steps out the door.
But then what.
The options may be limitless but none hold any interest.
So I stay in my prison.
Where the guard is no one but me.
And the only way for it to end is achieved through violence.
Luckily these measures take energy I don’t have.
It takes the ability to make decisions.
So time drags on and I slowly let go of the parts of me that cling to my sanity.
It’s not of much use in here anyway.

g)
I think maybe I do want to kill myself.

h)
I don’t know.

i)
4.29 am
I’m sick of writing sad words about sad things.
But I don’t know what else to do.
The more I go on, the less reasons I have to do so.
I’m running out of reasons and the the world seems very grey.
This is too real.
I never thought I would be here, thinking these thoughts.
I never thought it would reach this point.
Today I cried properly for the first time in a long time.
Because my thoughts and words seem less and less like that of a tired and dramatic teenager,
And more like the last words of a truly exhausted soul.

j)
I am my own worst enemy. My thoughts the assailants and my tears worthless. I am stuck in limbo, each day drags on for too long, time too slow and too fast. I find myself wishing that no one cared about me so I could just leave and not have to feel the guilt.

k)
22 oct 2015
I feel nothing, and everything
I feel as if I am falling into a menacing void
the darkness greedily swallowing my soul whole with glee
what is left of me is a shell
a husk of a girl that used to know what it meant to live
who now simply does what she must to survive
as her very self is being consumed
the worst part is not being consumed
it is not falling
the worst part is surviving
each second that ticks by brings only empty sadness
reminding me both of the life that i am wasting
and the life that I am being forced to live.
when joy comes it is fleeting, and easily shattered
and as it shatters, I am jolted into the reality of how terrifying this slow, useless fall into nothingness is.

I hold the world in my palm, I know that, I am told that.
but to harness this seems galaxies beyond my decrepit reach.
I am scared, but I am so exhausted the terror approaches only while I sleep.
I lie in my room, for a week at a time,
I feel like I have been told i don’t have long to live, and I’m just waiting it out
calmly letting my body rot from the inside because the world scares me.
I am utterly exhausted by all this useless nothing,
and the frustration is enough to make me leave the house.
But when I do all I feel is the constant falling of my emotions,
as I try to interact with friends and family and fail with a miserable bang.
I’m mean, I’m boring, I feel sick, and I’m always tired.
I am not a companion that one seeks out in the world.
I’m aware that I have friends who value me, and a family who loves me,
but there is nothing more painful than looking into their eyes and wishing they thought nothing of me at all,
just so the fall could end.

l) 22oct
I want to be dead
I know that because i am dead already
only right now I’m forced to lie awake and watch everyone else live
I am dead already because i know it is coming
and my emotionless face holds no window to the soul
I’m just waiting it out
for some peace and quiet
somewhere without constant reminders of everything i have lost
let me fucking die
please
please let me die
let me go

m) 22 oct
looking for a reason to live
a reason to keep letting each day drag past
but I can’t find any
I can’t find a single fucking reason that’s worth this pain
it’s not going to get better
all I’m doing is hurting the people who love me
there’s no magical cure
no important purpose I have to serve
I’m nothing but a waste of cells and time
nothing but a mess
and I don’t care
I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care
I just want it to endn) on acid

n) on acid
Messy joy, unconfined, unbound joy. The kind of happiness that bears many a seeker, but few have the privilege of finding. It knows no bounds, does not care for others opinions, does not do anything but what it wants. Society holds no bars, only lonely ladders to success. Once it has been reached it must be embraced, treasured, appreciated before it flees to other darker places. It is messy but it does not matter. It is joy.

o) on acid
Light, it comes it goes. We accept it, occasionally stop to appreciate it. But when times are dark and night swallows every last drop of of precious golden light, we realise its true comfort, the golden feeling of joy and home, and suddenly it becomes a game. A dark game, chasing shadows and wishing for light. Like a breeze whispering around a dead tree, useless searching. hollowing. Hollowing out holes and crumbles and fissures. When you gain it, you hold on, you come to hold yourself in true appreciation, a sensation of being and loving to be that is existential. An appreciation of this moment of light is a wonder to behold, even when captured, the elusive source of glimmering warmth comes with no bounds. Only once it leaves you are left, again the dark search, the walls of enveloping night stretching onwards like an eternity worthy of true disdain. Again the darkness swallows you whole as you are left with nothing but the bittersweet memory of what you realise is supposed to be normality. As the night dims you are reminded of how much light you used to have, how it still seems to shine upon others, warm and comforting. Why must you be excluded from this apparent normality. And if the light isn’t there, isnt worth searching for, then what are you left with?

p)
I’m just waiting to die.

q)
I’m just waiting to die. It’s what i want, what i crave. I don’t want this, i don’t like this place. I sit here all day and feel sorry for myself, mourn the wasted memories and the wasted potential. I could have grown up, gone to university, lived my life. Instead I sit here and wallow in exhaustion that weighs my body down. It’s as if I’m lying at the bottom of the ocean floor, feeling the weight of tonnes of water hold my body down, as I calmly watch the people up on the surface playing and enjoying the water. Sure I could swim up, but how. Everyone keeps telling me to, telling me I can, but the longer I can’t, the longer I’m stuck down here, the more I question if I even want to. Even if it was possible, what’s the point? So I daydream of ending it, of a reassuring black nothingness. It consumes me as the ocean does. I want to leave NOW. Only I’m too scared, too cowardly, too full of useless, aching guilt and pain. I wish people didn’t care, I wish I had cancer, I wish someone would just fucking end it for me. Because I am exhausted, I am just waiting to die, and it’s fucking exhausting.

r)
What does insanity look like?
Someone help me.
I’m stuck, sinking further into a haze of menacing greys and blacks.
A limbo of survival against my will.
Help me.
I can’t do this anymore.
I’m going fucking crazy.

s)
I think it would be nice to drown.
Like really, really, nice.

27/oct/15

t)
I just feel like I’m ready to go.
Really ready.
I can’t do this any longer.
Time is up.
I can feel the tears on my cheeks.
I’m gone now.
Don’t help me.
Just go away.
I’m sorry.

Photo by Hannes Herbst.

_________

If you have a story that you'd like to share, please submit it here.