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BlueRoses's picture

Another relapse and my hands are cold. My body can't keep up with my brain and when I type my fingers are out of sync.
They ache, i hit the wrong keys. Its so slow its painful. I'm so slow its painful.

I don't know how it happened this time. One moment i was happy, crying happy tears with my reflection because I felt like i was finally looking at myself. Like i could finally see something real.

And then I wasn't.
And now I'm not.

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We're stranded in Merced and the dull ache in my chest hurts like theres a crack their, splitting a little deeper. I'm beginning to wonder what will come seeping out when I break.

C is sitting two seats down, he feels too far away. Like a distance is set between us because he can't understand my melancholy. Every now and then i get the fear again. Like someday I'll wake up and all the love will have drained from me, I'll be too tired, too hollow and when I look at him he won't look the same and I won't recognise him, and when that happens I won't recognise myself and I won't like myself.

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I missed 11:11, tragic.
C says its his favourite time of day because it makes him think of me.
Usually I make 11:11 wishes for the patients I work with, stupid things like hoping they get a good nights sleep or they have a happy delusion, not a sad one. Sometimes I just wish they'd get some peace.
When I was a teenager I just used to wish I could be thin, or that boys would like me, or that I could be pretty, and I used to set an alarm so I'd never miss 11:11. It was like this weird routine I just couldn't falter on. You know, just in case something happened.

I wish on everything, dandy lion

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I like it here, it's quiet.
I like being able to write away my train of thought knowing that someone will see it, but not too many someones. A handful of someone's might read this. Might.

I like being able to say I'm struggling again without the fear that anyone I know is going to hear me. It makes it that little bit easier you know, to start thinking about it again.
I don't think I'm ready to start thinking about it again, not just yet. Maybe in a week or two, maybe in February. At the moment I think I'd just like to say it here, in the quiet, where my voice can just linger a little while.

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Heaven // Talking Heads

In the luggage rack of a packed out tube train carriage we opposed each other. Losing ourselves to lethargy and the long journey home, our smirks were the sleepy kind. Our attempts at entertainment halfhearted, childish. You caught my foot with your foot, tried to knock me off balance. I pulled faces, mouthed insults in slow motion, picked at the rubber lining of someone elses suitcase and flicked it at you, trying to hold your attention.
If only I'd realised I didn't need to try.

We were waiting an hour before we got a seat but when we did I chose the song we shared,

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I love someone dearly and it hurts a little bit more every day.

When we met it was love at the center of a heatwave, dust on your dressing table, dust in your freshly folded clothes. It used to catch in the creases by his eyes when he laughed.
We used to wander home drunk at night, stumble down northern cobblestone paths, through Liverpool, Manchester, Nottingham. We used to stumble home down by Camden Loch and he would laugh because I didn't know left from right.
We used to stay up too late, our eyes would sting and the sun would rise slowly before either of us could fall asleep.

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I get followed home a lot. I don't live in a particularly affluent part of the city and the streets are always quiet, not quiet enough. I leave A's house and I toy with the idea of catching the bus, but catching the bus means waiting for a bus and sometimes they run regular but a lot of the time they're late, sometimes its 3 minutes standing alone, sometimes its 15 and a man you don't know is sitting with his shoulder pushed against yours, breathing down your neck and asking your name.
Most of the time the bus comes and my travel card gets declined anyway because I've forgotten to top up.

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00:46 (happy thoughts)

Every now and then the voice comes back, the oh "well if anything really bad ever happens." It opens the bedroom door quietly in the middle of the night and slips in unnoticed. I only hear her when she's breathing down my neck.
And when she comes back, when my reflection gets too much, when the thought of making a future for myself gets to be too much, the only thing there is left to do is sit back and think happy thoughts. As many happy thoughts as I can.
Cause all things must pass right?

1) its first year, youre drunk and the kitchen is spinning.

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I went home, I spoke to my mum and she said "I thought something was up, I'm not surprised you feel like this" which all considering I'm actually kind of impressed at because not many mums could play down suicidal thoughts. Somehow within the space of ten minutes I went from feeling like my whole world was ending, to feeling like everyone has felt the way I was feeling at some point or other in their life.

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Mum called yesterday because no matter how hard i try to pretend that everything fine, even when theres a whole motorway and half the New Forest between us, she can still tell when something is up.
And somethings really up.
I'm so stressed with uni that I've managed to really bad relapse again, to the point where even telling my friends how i feel is petrifying.