"Cutting pain was a different flavor of hurt. It made it easier not to think about having my body and my family and my life stolen, made it easier not to care." (Laurie Halse Anderson)


I thought that hiding myself and having secrets would actually help me to become someone else. I wanted to change, and I still do. But now I realize that I was wrong. My secrets are killing me day after day. They take the control on me, they make me weak and lost. I feel like I'm getting insane. Each words of mine is a lie, each breath, each thought. I'm living a lie which is tormenting me as soon as I wake up until I go to bed. I can't talk, I can't explain how I feel. I'm crawling. People would tell me "Your life is up to you". But it's not that simple. Lie became an automatic reaction in my brain. And it's killing me. The cheerful act I put on each day makes me feel like s***, unworthy. I'm prisoner of myself. Hope has become a myth devoid of meaning for my clouded mind surrounded by regrets and memories. Then I started to wonder -Should I find something to help me ? something which would help me to forget the pain I'm constantly feeling ? - that's when I started to cut myself, but not deeply, it didn't bleed. I had already done this. It was three years ago. I was desperate, heart-borken, destroyed because of one person. I started to cut myself, writing her name into my flesh. I felt closer to her this way. It took me time to forget. I was so hurt. I thought I would never be so sad again. But I am. I'm lying to everyone, to myself. It's just too hard to handle. So I cut again. I try not to, but it feels like a need. I know I shouldn't do it but as soon as I feel the pain surrounding me, burning me on the inside, I have to. I like to watch my cuts. They reminds me that I'm unworthy, that I'm a liar who shouldn't even be there. I've broken so many hearts because of my lies, including mine. I wanna say the truth but something is keeping me of doing it. I always and up crying at my foolishness. I'm a lie myself. My whole figure, my persona is just a fucking lie.I'm not real. I'm just hiding myself in my own body. Nobody knows me. Some people might pretend to care about me, to know me, but they don't. They fake a smile and pretend to listen. So I smile back because I feel the urge to lie about something related to me. The truth scares me I don't want it to be true. So I fight my feelings, I try to be stronger than them but they're always back to haunt me - one more cut.

It would be better to just ignore my feelings, be cold-hearted. I wish I was strong enough to do so. But I'm not. I'm my own slave. The pain is all over me, haunting me, taunting me, teasing me. It's like sorrow is invading my lungs like a poison reminding me of how unworthy I am. My own lies make me shiver - like ice on fire, fire on ice - it hurts. But I can't let them go. They don't wanna let me go - not that easily. So maybe there's another person in my mind. Someone who's hiding me, keeping the real me trapped in my brain, unable to give up on them, like a promise made to another side of me. You may think I'm insane I don't care. I'm just trying to explain how messed up my mind and my heart are. The pain is so deep inside me as if it was written on my bones or in my DNA like a signature, a proof that I can't control this feelings, it controls me, I'm its victim. It's pushing into my chest making me suffocating, trying to breathe despite the whole feelings which are growing inside of me. It's like a bleed.
When you see the blood you just have to press your hands on it and suddenly it stops bleeding. But it you remove your hands it bleeds even more. This is the same for the pain – as long as it's deep inside you, hiding, you don't feel it – or at least you hurt less. But if you start talking about it then all the suffering invades your veins burning you on the inside, you just want to scream to push the pain away. But it's still here because you're talking about it. I guess some people might say that the truth is better than a lie to oneself but honestly it doesn't make you feel better. You're just more ashamed because you're not able to deal with your sadness. Then you're fed up with everything you feel and you change yourself into a sort of ghot because you don't want to feel that pain anymore. So you pray wishing that someday all would be better – someday.

I'd say that my lack of trust towards people is due to my family issues. the biggest part of my family members left me, spreading lies about my parents, bullying them such as my grand-mother and my aunt. I can't help but wonder - is lying an actual brain disorder ? is it genetic ? - It's hard for me to trust people because somewhere I have the feeling that they will leave me. I can't get attached and it makes me sick. Those people fucked my life up, and they're doing it again. They reappeared this year, as if nothing had happened, playing with my feelings one more time. I feel damaged. It's their fault. Why am I different ? I wish I was like any other girls, having a boyfriend, going to parties. Instead of that I'm staying alone writing my feelings, trying to understand why I'm acting this way. But this is the only thing I can do if I want to build myself a new life. A real one where I could be myself. I know I'll need time. It feels like everyone else is moving on with their lives while I am stuck here in this hole that I can’t climb out of. My life is such an amount of ashes of my memories, I have nothing to hold onto. I'm alone. Then I start dreaming about this whole life in which everything would be perfect. At this very moment, I think I feel complete again. But those dreams only remind me that no matter what I'm willing to do, I'm still by my own. No. No true. I still have my memories, my pain, this need to breathe but I just can't because a part of me is missing and I type those feelings furiously as words on my computer. I seem to believe that it helps me. Well, it doesn't. It's killing me to write my feelings because for the very first time they're not in my mind anymore. They're in front of me – black words on a blank page -. It turns out to be real. I cry, I scream, I don't want it to be true. So I burn this page again and am relieved to see those words disappear into the flames.
However the next day I write them down again – burn them one more time.

« We can destroy what we have written, but we cannot unwrite it » (Anthony Burgess).

Each day the hope that everything has just been a scary nightmare invades me. But each day my pain reveals itself again.