#para su1c1d4l

[capricious-and-caprine]

the emptiness remains.

[imthatgirlblog]

Disclaimer |

Writing this for any future or older followers. This used to be my teen tumblr page, during certain times that I was d3pr3ssiv3, etc, I do not agree or encourage anyone to any of my old reposts, as some of them were quite heavy or TW. I will not delete these, as they are part of my story and a really down moment of my life, so its only fair to keep them. But please, if you are having any su1c1d4l thoughts, I encourage you to seek help. And I'm here to let you know it does get better, you may have some down days but it can get better! Do not give up on yourself!!! So, will try to rewrite this page into something better! Worldwide lines for you to get help honeyboo 💞: https://blog.opencounseling.com/suicide-hotlines/ All my love for you guys! ----

Escrevendo isso para qualquer seguidor futuro ou mais antigo. Esta costumava ser minha página do Tumblr adolescente, durante certos momentos em que eu era d3pr3ssiv3, etc., não concordo nem encorajo ninguém a nenhuma das minhas antigas repostagens, pois algumas delas eram bem pesadas ou TW. Não vou deletar essas, pois elas são parte da minha história e um momento muito ruim da minha vida, então é justo mantê-las. Mas, por favor, se você estiver tendo algum pensamento su1c1d4l, eu a encorajo a procurar ajuda. E estou aqui para te dizer que melhora, você pode ter alguns dias ruins, mas pode melhorar! Não desista de si mesma!!!

Então, vou tentar reescrever esta página em algo melhor!

Linhas mundiais para você obter ajuda, amorzinho💞:

https://blog.opencounseling.com/suicide-hotlines/

- That Girl Mandy 💞

[sushidebacon]

Por que ninguém está falando sobre o fato da Zoé se sentir tão deprimida e desespera que ela não estava aguentando a própria vida, e por causa disso mudou de país? Eu acho que se nada tivesse mudado em Paris, por exemplo, se ela não tivesse conhecido a Marinette na padaria, eu realmente acho que ela não aguentaria, claramente ela tem um possível comportamento suicida, mas é muito bom que ela nem chegou a falar sobre isso.

Why isn't anyone talking about Zoé feeling so depressed and despairing that she couldn't make it through her life, and because of that, she moved to another country? I think if nothing had changed in Paris, for example, if she hadn't met Marinette at the bakery, I really don't think she could take it, clearly she has possible suicidal behavior, but it's great that she didn't even talk about it. that.

*Editado*: quero deixar claro que eu não quis disser que ela estava su1c1d4, quis dizer que ela passava uma impressão que ela estava desistindo de tudo. Contudo, acho que ela realmente só estava indo pegar um ar fresco para pensar melhor no que fazer em relação à Chloé e Marinette.

Edited*: I want to make it clear that I did not mean that she was su1c1d4l, I meant that she gave the impression that she was giving up everything. However, I think she was really just going to get some fresh air to think better of what to do about Chloé and Marinette.

[capricious-and-caprine]

if i took an mbti test, it would result in me being more logical than emotional: this is not true. both hold value to me. logic informs emotion. if i feel angry about a trivial comment, it implies that comment was a passive-aggressive. instincts are innate. our emotions are wise barometers.

i feel deeply. i love hard. relationships are black and white: infallible or toxic.

[capricious-and-caprine]

i want to scream into the wind to see if i still exist. late at night, alone, my oscillations travel, weaker and weaker, imperceptible. the sensation i feel tapping on my tablet isn't real: it's just the electromagnetic repulsion. i am nothing. that's a bit reductive: i'm a child, sibling, friend: a complex DNA sequence and entangled histories and the five closest people around me - a cloud of probability overlapping and repelling.

yet the words

you should kill yourself

you should kill yourself

you should kill yourself

fill my mind.

they don't streamline like the lines one gets for punishment. they stack like cartoonish idents. they permeate trivial incidents, like a falling out with my friend or facile decisions like deciding to make pancakes without neither a mixing bowl nor a spatula. i feel a lot safer in my room. my hermitage is imminent, i fear.

[capricious-and-caprine]

deletion

i have dominion over my life.

if a chat log annoys me, an e-book embarrassing to have, a person i no longer want to see, i just delete it or block them.

It’s so simple.

My mind might wander on them, but the absence of their reminders plus my lack of object permanence assuages the cringe I feel.

I blocked one of my best friends today. It’s a reversible process, but it gave me a bit more power over my life.

I will also attempt to let go of other’s notions about me: I will always come across as lazy, ungrateful, dishonest and cold towards towards my mum, and immature to my friends. It is futile to disabuse them of these notions because they’ve made their conclusions, so every action I make is a premise to them.

So if I’m not a burden, and don’t care if I’m lazy, why am I suicidal? I think it’s because I’m frustrated with my existence. I think I deserve the autonomy to end my life if I so choose. Advising someone to live because it will make their family sad is a selfish, fatuous argument to make.

[capricious-and-caprine]

what now?

increasingly, the evidence supports that I should withdraw from my course and move back home. i've moved, i finally have my own bedroom. at university, i'm isolated: i only talk at length to student services, i briefly converse with my flat- and course mates.

my friends say there's no harm. but if i withdraw, is that not surrender? it corroborates the idea i make poor life choices. i can't start over when i feel so behind. i think i want to die. it only worsens after this.

[capricious-and-caprine]

“cruel mothers are still mothers. they make us wars. they make us revolution. they teach us the truth. early. mothers are humans. who sometimes give birth to their pain. instead of children. – hate” ― Nayyirah Waheed, salt.

i am the embodiment of pain. i wonder what my mother saw when she kissed my forehead while i was asleep. we both knew i wasn't sleeping.

does she see an extension of herself? or the sins of my father? a man's condescension? a waste of the pain of childbirth?

i am not unloved. that is my problem. i am loved so much that these feelings are ingratitude.

[capricious-and-caprine]

in a suicidal mood tonight

i could name my favourite suicidal attempts.

my favourite would be the one where I had an urgent care team. I'd go there everyday, show them my pills. Very disorganised between them and my care coordinators. Also, the turnover rate for that job is really high. My care coordinator ignores my calls. If I showed up or called consistently, maybe she would. Apropos my favourite attempt, I had made up my mind. I left a WhatsApp story because it's rude to leave without saying goodbye. I don't want to agonise whether I'd said goodbye or not! On the train I felt relief. I saw an attractive person in a twill suit and baker boy hat; the acknowledgment was futile because I wouldn't do anything about it. My eyes were burdened with relief. I felt free. My actions would not matter: inconsequential, like the scatter of ash in the wind!

the quality of therapy is very telling

when they tell me to find a reason to live

I've found none that were compelling

Loved ones are an answer people often give.

No infants have been expelled from my womb,

And a friend's death reminds us of our mortality,

A boulder misplaced, a saviour of an empty tomb,l

birth, death, decay; cycle of futility.

memories cease, and cells replace -

Evoke an inside joke or their favourite food

as sure as the earth rotates, in expanding space

you will heal, just have the right attitude!

[capricious-and-caprine]

drinking

it's often said that drinking is not the answer to one's problem. but when i'm inebriated, i feel less dense. i'm light, i can access my innermost thoughts. the only problem is that it ends.

i know it does not solve a problem. pain medication does not remove the source of pain, but alleviates it by essentially telling your brain to ignore it. pain is an empty sensation until your brain interprets things.

my mind decodes my experience but can also work to my detriment.

[capricious-and-caprine]

feel good

after a few hours of nausea, sertraline overdoses make you feel numb as hell. i can withstand anything. i remember that touch is just my electromagnetic field repelling someone else's. my head is lead and my mother's reprimanding radiation. the pinch of a needle does not affect me.

it's better than one would think - to the detriment of my liver.

i get triggered easily. it's a genuine thing. seeing people do drugs, or self harm or mention being suicidal. i'm a humectant for all things self-destruction. it's my predilection. i can fight the thoughts because it takes effort and i'm quite a static person, anyway. even my exploration is at my own convenience: after an errand, then i might walk. the walk is rarely singular.

[capricious-and-caprine]

in vino veritas, 29 may

I once wrote in my 'Togetherall' journal, that anger is like wine and in vino veritas. I enjoy provoking others. Their ostensible jokes become angry accusations: 'You shouldn't have taken a break out of university'. I have scars I have given others, and scars I have given myself: a symbol of my internal and external expressions of anger.

I also hate being accused of being able to dish it out but not take it. Sometimes that is logically fallacious. But with someone with low self-esteem and mixed depression and anxiety, any negative things someone has to say about me (e.g my coldness, my lack of trustworthiness, being flaky) is something I have probably thought myself. I feel like it's a membrane surrounding myself.

I also dislike how my anger changes my views of others so dramatically. One minute, they're sarcastically engaging, and the next, they're a bitch. I prepare for a life without them, creating revenge fantasies of humiliating them and then when I talk to them later, I feel the jovial warmth of talking with a friend. I know this is normal; it makes me feel inauthentic. But my feelings about people are genuinely volatile.

I want to scream but don't want the neighbours to complain. I don't particularly care for respectability, but I just want a neutral opinion.

[capricious-and-caprine]

a conciliatory “i’ll see you later,”

i’ll be back, i hope. if this intercalation does not kill me first.

as i’ve said before, my optimism for life fluctuates: some days i’m full of energy and i want to do everything everywhere all at once; other times my house is too cramped and no one will comply and before i clean the bathroom i have to brush my teeth. it’s too overwhelming and i don’t know how to persevere. those days are ‘tomorrow will be better’ days. i’ve had too many of those and i’ve fallen behind.

maybe i need to fall in love with university again. i should attend seminars. i could play with the campus pet.

[capricious-and-caprine]

16 March 2023

I am rereading a book I read in secondary school, 'My Heart and Other Black Holes.' It inspired my anthology, 'Love and Other Ephemera'. I don't think I should share this because, you know, people might steal the idea. Which implies my ideas are worthy of being stolen. Tee hee.

I read over 200 books during my stay at secondary school. Often I was awarded the most books borrowed. I was close with our librarian. She died. I had the privilege of attending her funeral as part of the SSLT. When this was announced, I was warned beforehand - back then, even my headmistress knew how vulnerable I was. I'm pathetic.

I want to be more truthful, yet I have already overexposed myself. Therapists, teachers, pastors, neighbours, family members, and friends - all burdened with the knowledge of my problems. I tell them half-truths, like my environment, my relationship with my mother, or my fear of being misperceived. I know these contribute, but they are only part of the reason. I get impulses. Violent impulses. I can ignore them: like I should ignore my cramped council estate flat, my mother's cruel words, or the eyes that linger on me on the street. I could. I could. I could. What would my reasoning be, then? I want to? That's it? Even if I was telling the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, it would be futile. I know less myself. I cannot decipher emotions. That is a lie. I can, but I need to convince myself of the reasons. If I cannot persuade myself, I do not understand, and it does not compute. I decide things without telling people. I skip steps. I do not take caution.

I consider the consequences; I want to squander my life away. It is too late, anyway.

[capricious-and-caprine]

the only constant is change

it's baffling how in one month your best friends turn into strangers whom you'd ignore passing the street.

how, with my favourable opinion, the hues in my memory were idealistic, innocuous and bright: now, hindsight paints them in tainted chiaroscuro. inconsequential remarks become hidden insults. their forgiveness feels like ostensible magnanimity. i wish to leave this without malice, but i remember when i wanted to paint with crimson, and hide under polyester clothing. the friction reminds me of my pain; the pain reminds me it was not in vain.

i know the reasons are trivial, but they're symptomatic of my fundamental views: i am unlovable. i could believe otherwise, but my hypothesis is evidence; i'll discount the evidence fo my null hypothesis.

[capricious-and-caprine]

apathetically abusive?

in the haze of a external persecution complex (they're all uninformed)

or an internal abuser (i'm an antipathetic manipulator)

and my selfishness contingent on others' selfless

i lose the sense of who i am.

how many pretend to be my friend?

in my mind, their pacificatory smiles conceal their coddling,

in vino veritas (in which wine is vitriol)

in vitriol, there is veracity

and bottled emotions, viscosity; for this

asserts what i knew but dismissed as true:

i'm tolerated, only cherished by few.