Jisatsu
黒い薔薇(The Black Rose)
- Jan 5, 2025
- 1,961
I look at my reflection and it's enough to make my puke. Not because of vanity. Because that face is proof I'm still here, still breathing, still trapped in this loop I keep swearing I'll escape. I want to scream at it for surviving when I didn't ask to. For failing every time it mattered. For never learning. Nothing changes. I don't heal . I never heal.
Addiction never ended. It just learned new disguises. Drugs and alcohol loosen their grip and something else lunges in. Self‑harm turns into obsession. Obsession turns into starvation and purging. That turns into attempts. The substance changes, the intention doesn't. I'm always negotiating with the dark like it's my own personal dealer. Just let me rest. Just make it stop....please make this stop
I bleed internally. Constantly. The sad pressure that never releases. Every night is a bargaining session with myself. Every morning is a hangover from surviving... another session of crying because I woke up again.
I fall in love like I'm drowning and grabbing at any hand that will pull me up. I mistake intensity for safety, strangers for lifeboats. Every person becomes a reason to stay until they aren't, and when they leave, the drop is violent. It confirms what I already fear: I'm only tolerable when I'm breaking. Only lovable in crisis. I grieve people who died, people who left, and people who only ever existed in my head. The grief stacks. No one helps me carry it. I drag it everywhere like how I drag my feet ... like I'm already long dead but somehow still alive. Undead and cursed to live in this hell...
Money stress crushes me in quiet, humiliating ways. It's not just bills. It's proof that I can't even do survival right. Food, shelter, basics needs... Everyone else manages. I don't. It makes me feel defective, like I was assembled wrong and released anyway. I'm a burden to everyone I know and I'm so sorry ... I'm so sorry I ever existed.
Food.... is just another war zone. I punish my body for existing, then punish myself for the punishment. Hunger feels earned. Eating feels criminal. Overeating then constant purging feels like relief for half a second, then shame floods in and stays. My body isn't a home. It's a problem I keep trying to erase. ...My room smells like vomit again ... it smells like someone died in here and ... it's me.
Reality itself doesn't feel stable. Voices, distortions, hallucinations. I don't trust my senses. I don't trust my thoughts. I don't trust that anyone would understand what this feels like even if I explained it perfectly. I'm alone inside my own head and it's unbearably loud.
The Grief and guilt are welded into my spine. Guilt for surviving when others didn't. Guilt for needing help. Guilt for being tired. Grief for people I lost and for the version of me that might have existed without trauma, chemicals, desperation rewriting my brain. I mourn a life I never got to try.
And looming over everything is the fear that I broke my mind permanently. Memory slipping. Words vanishing mid‑sentence. Confusion that feels deeper than stress. I forget names, reasons, intentions. I forget why I walked into rooms. I forget myself mid‑thought. I write everything down because if I don't, it disappears. Importance doesn't matter. Meaning doesn't matter. It all vanishes. I hoard memories because I don't know when they'll leave too.
I often spiral when I forget memories I know that are deeply important to me... ones that primarily have to do with loved ones I've lost.
........I've tried coping, I've tried treatment. I've tried routines, promises, willpower that felt real at the time. None of it sticks. The cycle always comes back meaner, smarter, wearing my face staring at me with its sinister grin.
Love doesn't feel like joy anymore. It feels like anesthesia that wears off too fast. I attach because being alone with my thoughts is unbearable, then I disappear trying to be whatever will make someone stay. When they leave, I don't just lose them. I lose the version of me that existed around them. I don't know how many selves I have left. At this point, I can't even be myself for me.
The distortions don't scare me anymore. They exhaust me. I'm tired of monitoring reality, tired of checking whether things happened, tired of pretending this doesn't take monumental effort. I see figures as I drive , I see them at the edge of my bed , I see them face to face inches from me... smiling ..... I want the sweet silence that isn't temporary. I want silence that lasts....
Giving up doesn't feel dramatic. It feels heavy. Dull. Like my body keeps moving while my will drags behind it, leaving marks on the floor. I'm not planning. I'm not fantasizing. I'm just emptying out. I'm tired of being told to fight ... for nothing.
I don't feel brave. I don't feel resilient. I feel worn down to the bone. Like everything sharp inside me finally turned inward and there's nothing left to defend. I don't want to be inspiring. I don't want to be strong. I want this to fucking end.
And the worst part is that a small part of me still cares.... that human part that knows how much shit ive been through... still notices. Still feels guilt for wanting out. That part keeps the machine running long after the reason is gone. It's cruel, that last flicker. Loyal. Exhausted. Refusing to let me disappear even when everything else has clocked out.... I'll beat this part of me ... I'll beat her down until I have no more humanity left in me and when that day comes none of you will ever hear from me again.
...
This is my Cyanic Fallout
With the death I carry about
Everything turned to frozen blue,
A quiet fire that no one knew.
Nothing grows here, nothing survives,
Only the echo of her shattered life.
She is Ashbound, chained to the night,
The leftover smoke of a dying light.
She carries debris, she carries pain,
The quiet death that falls like rain.
She is the echo, the shattered frame,
The residue of a world aflame.
...
Addiction never ended. It just learned new disguises. Drugs and alcohol loosen their grip and something else lunges in. Self‑harm turns into obsession. Obsession turns into starvation and purging. That turns into attempts. The substance changes, the intention doesn't. I'm always negotiating with the dark like it's my own personal dealer. Just let me rest. Just make it stop....please make this stop
I bleed internally. Constantly. The sad pressure that never releases. Every night is a bargaining session with myself. Every morning is a hangover from surviving... another session of crying because I woke up again.
I fall in love like I'm drowning and grabbing at any hand that will pull me up. I mistake intensity for safety, strangers for lifeboats. Every person becomes a reason to stay until they aren't, and when they leave, the drop is violent. It confirms what I already fear: I'm only tolerable when I'm breaking. Only lovable in crisis. I grieve people who died, people who left, and people who only ever existed in my head. The grief stacks. No one helps me carry it. I drag it everywhere like how I drag my feet ... like I'm already long dead but somehow still alive. Undead and cursed to live in this hell...
Money stress crushes me in quiet, humiliating ways. It's not just bills. It's proof that I can't even do survival right. Food, shelter, basics needs... Everyone else manages. I don't. It makes me feel defective, like I was assembled wrong and released anyway. I'm a burden to everyone I know and I'm so sorry ... I'm so sorry I ever existed.
Food.... is just another war zone. I punish my body for existing, then punish myself for the punishment. Hunger feels earned. Eating feels criminal. Overeating then constant purging feels like relief for half a second, then shame floods in and stays. My body isn't a home. It's a problem I keep trying to erase. ...My room smells like vomit again ... it smells like someone died in here and ... it's me.
Reality itself doesn't feel stable. Voices, distortions, hallucinations. I don't trust my senses. I don't trust my thoughts. I don't trust that anyone would understand what this feels like even if I explained it perfectly. I'm alone inside my own head and it's unbearably loud.
The Grief and guilt are welded into my spine. Guilt for surviving when others didn't. Guilt for needing help. Guilt for being tired. Grief for people I lost and for the version of me that might have existed without trauma, chemicals, desperation rewriting my brain. I mourn a life I never got to try.
And looming over everything is the fear that I broke my mind permanently. Memory slipping. Words vanishing mid‑sentence. Confusion that feels deeper than stress. I forget names, reasons, intentions. I forget why I walked into rooms. I forget myself mid‑thought. I write everything down because if I don't, it disappears. Importance doesn't matter. Meaning doesn't matter. It all vanishes. I hoard memories because I don't know when they'll leave too.
I often spiral when I forget memories I know that are deeply important to me... ones that primarily have to do with loved ones I've lost.
........I've tried coping, I've tried treatment. I've tried routines, promises, willpower that felt real at the time. None of it sticks. The cycle always comes back meaner, smarter, wearing my face staring at me with its sinister grin.
Love doesn't feel like joy anymore. It feels like anesthesia that wears off too fast. I attach because being alone with my thoughts is unbearable, then I disappear trying to be whatever will make someone stay. When they leave, I don't just lose them. I lose the version of me that existed around them. I don't know how many selves I have left. At this point, I can't even be myself for me.
The distortions don't scare me anymore. They exhaust me. I'm tired of monitoring reality, tired of checking whether things happened, tired of pretending this doesn't take monumental effort. I see figures as I drive , I see them at the edge of my bed , I see them face to face inches from me... smiling ..... I want the sweet silence that isn't temporary. I want silence that lasts....
Giving up doesn't feel dramatic. It feels heavy. Dull. Like my body keeps moving while my will drags behind it, leaving marks on the floor. I'm not planning. I'm not fantasizing. I'm just emptying out. I'm tired of being told to fight ... for nothing.
I don't feel brave. I don't feel resilient. I feel worn down to the bone. Like everything sharp inside me finally turned inward and there's nothing left to defend. I don't want to be inspiring. I don't want to be strong. I want this to fucking end.
And the worst part is that a small part of me still cares.... that human part that knows how much shit ive been through... still notices. Still feels guilt for wanting out. That part keeps the machine running long after the reason is gone. It's cruel, that last flicker. Loyal. Exhausted. Refusing to let me disappear even when everything else has clocked out.... I'll beat this part of me ... I'll beat her down until I have no more humanity left in me and when that day comes none of you will ever hear from me again.
...
This is my Cyanic Fallout
With the death I carry about
Everything turned to frozen blue,
A quiet fire that no one knew.
Nothing grows here, nothing survives,
Only the echo of her shattered life.
She is Ashbound, chained to the night,
The leftover smoke of a dying light.
She carries debris, she carries pain,
The quiet death that falls like rain.
She is the echo, the shattered frame,
The residue of a world aflame.
...
