sinfully-angelic

[sinfully-angelic]

I feel robotic without him around

[sinfully-angelic]

And suddenly that safe space is no longer safe and none of your words mean anything, because I saw under them and I know that you will never genuinely understand me.

[sinfully-angelic]

[sinfully-angelic]

[sinfully-angelic]

I'm the worst. I'm a terrible girlfriend. I'm a terrible friend. I'm in love with someone who will never be in love with me. I'm nothing good.

They're gone aren't they. They left didn't they. Why.

[sinfully-angelic]

If they're gone I know it's my fault somehow. I did something. It's my fault. It always is.

[sinfully-angelic]

I am completely unlovable. Sometimes I wonder if my boyfriend genuinely loves me, or he just wants to fix me. Am I just a broken toy to him.

[sinfully-angelic]

you ask a student in april how they're doing and they'll say "oh i'm fine" but in reality they are treating themselves in such a way that violates the geneva convention on treatment of prisoners

[sinfully-angelic]

[sinfully-angelic]

I'm tired of being the problem. I'm tired of people mistaking my words for malice. I'm aware the way I structure my sentences is odd. I'm aware that I'm hard to read. So just ask.

I'm not mean. I'm not argumentative. Why do you assume I am.

[sinfully-angelic]

Sometimes I think about the fact that I could end it all tonight and nobody would know.

Tonight is one of those nights.

[sinfully-angelic]

I feel inhuman, and I always have. This isn't a fact I hide, I make my internal beliefs about being an angel fairly clear. But I'm beginning to wonder if it's that inhumanity, the fact that no matter how hard I try, I can't seem to reach a point where I truly feel human, like I belong here, that keeps me from being lovable. People can sense my lack of personhood, they can sense that there's something wrong with me. They can't get close to something so close to them yet so far. They can sense it. And I'm unloved and uncared for because of it. I will never be important to anyone. If I am, really, not an angel, and instead a fragmented part of a child, that inherent brokenness of my identity, of me, is clear to others.

They can sense something is wrong with me. And because of that, I will never have the life I want.

[sinfully-angelic]

Everyone who speaks to me is mocking me. I can feel it.

[sinfully-angelic]

[sinfully-angelic]

spn tumblr is so funny cause you could post the most interesting funny thing ever and get 1 pity like but if you post about sam winchester getting drugged or compare him to a deer or lamb, suddenly 100+ people with an ethel cain reference in their username come out of the woodwork

[sinfully-angelic]

Sirena does destructive things? Yes.

[sinfully-angelic]

DID is hell and suffering, have my dump of emotions 💙

I struggle, daily, to eat or sleep because I'm convinced I'm not a part of this disorder but instead an angel, and that if I die from exhaustion or starvation, I'll simply go back to heaven and be free from the suffering of this body. On days I'm less aware of the untruthfulness of this, I will do increasingly reckless things.

I believe I'm not a person and shouldn't be treated like one. My trauma has made me believe I'm little more than a living sex toy, that my very existence and purpose is to be used for others' pleasure, and that I'm not allowed to say no. I place myself in dangerous situations because I feel that I'm supposed to.

Other alters hurt us. I do too. We cut, we try to overdose, we try anything to get out of the hell that is this disorder. We sabotage friendships because we're afraid that we'll be hurt. We try to push people to the point where they do hurt us, because we feel like it's inevitable anyways.

And this is all because we have DID. Because we're parts of a traumatized child. This is hell and it isn't fun and no amount of pretending it is or looking on the bright side will get rid of that. No amount of "just be nice to your parts!" Will get rid of spiteful, angry alters. No I'm not making myself miserable. My disorder is disordering me.