Today in group someone said, “not everyone you meet is going to have good intentions.” This resonated with me for some reason. I think it just made me come to this conclusion that our human nature naturally assumes everyone we come across is good. I also think this is why we end up drifting from people. Because we only look for the good at the beginning, and then true colours come out. I guess it just made me question a lot of things, and understand some other things. The one lesson is to not be so grieved by the loss of a relationship due to this. It’s not the end of the world to lose people with bad intent.
You stabbed me in the back and managed to put the knife in my hands
The word “sad” is etched into the backs of each hand.
I lay down with the same songs on repeat.
Trapped within the confines of my own skin, I wonder where it all began
And I wonder where it will all end
Lately I’ve felt so small an undeserving. I’ve been feeling as though I am not good enough. Partly because of my own self esteem issues, and my body dysmorphia telling me so, but also because of things other people have said.
How ridiculous is that? My worth isn’t what my mental illness sees, and it certainly isn’t what other people think of me. I’ve come to realize in the past week that I am in fact not a bad person. I am honest, and uprfront. I accept my faults and I own them. I have parts of me that I want to change, but it’s going to take some time. And if people can’t see past that, then why am I allowing them to affect my life?
I guess that’s something a lot of us struggle with, and I suppose we will never know. I think I’m just tired of allowing people to walk over me and then in turn flip it around so I’m the villian. I’m tired of passive aggressiveness, and all of the projection. I realize I’ve made mistakes as of late, one being letting my best friend slip away, but that’s on me. I shut her out. And I realize what I did, and I will fix that. But there’s a lot of things I haven’t done, and that aren’t my fault. I always blame myself, and consequently other people start to as well.
DBT is starting to teach me that it’s okay, that I’m not okay. And it’s okay, that I don’t like how people treat me. And it’s okay if I make mistakes. And it’s okay if I’m flawed. Because I’m fucking working on it. Dbt is teaching me that I’m sick and that means I need to take care of me. And do what’s best for me. Whether it’s spending the day trail riding alone, or shutting my phone off for a week. If the people in my life can’t handle me in my sick state, or even me in my me state, then don’t be in my life.
Fair enough, right?
I’m worthy of love. I’m worthy of friends. I’m worthy of not being treated like I’m nothing.
I’m a galaxy of exploding stars. And this is just the beginning.
Letting people in, to only have them use your flaws against you gets familiar too quick.
And there’s no relief in knowing one more person feels the same way about you.
In a week it’ll be two years since you chose to die. The nightmares have started again, so I’ve been awake wondering where you’ve gone, and if you miss me the way that I miss you.
I can’t be mad at you anymore, because I understand the choices you made, and why you made them.
I wonder what could’ve stopped you.
Stab me right in the palm where his head rests at night dreaming of my inner thighs and the holes in my chest.
Cut her again with your knife.
Your blade has found her back, so say it
I dare you
Hurt her again, and the borderline girl will split in two
She won’t tie her halves back together this time
This time she won’t stich the wound. She will remember. And it will haunt you like a ghost.
She will haunt you like a ghost.
Cut me again with your knife, and I won’t forgive
But you will regret
His fingers strummed the chords so peacefully and I sat there so melancholy.
The notes from the guitar drifted off and tied around my throat. I thought of all the ways I was like the strings, strummed out and untuned this week.
I’m trying to think of all the ways I hurt, but it’s pointless because like the instrument, I too am being played. They keep telling me how I should feel. And how I should act.
My choices don’t exist anymore.
But I go back to the beginning, him playing the guitar. Him, the only one who doesn’t pull my strings, and make me someone that I’m not, who understands the music that I play, who completes the lonely melodies that spew out of my mind.
He is where I begin, and where I will be.
Laying in bed, trying not to kill myself.