There's nothing I can really fill you in on, there's some things I might not mention, for personal reasons. Perhaps, after this is posted, I'll redirect you to my new tumblr. Maybe I won't. I don't know. This girl doesn't want to hurt anymore. I'm in a better place now, even if sometimes, I wish that better place was hell.... or even heaven, or some abyss where I'd drift for eternity, after committing suicide....
Moving along, this post is going to talk about a lot. It's nothing you should read if you want to insult me.... not sure if any of you AKF bitches still hang around this dingy little blog I own, but I should take the precaution of including a break.
forewarning: the following will contain vulgar language, mentions of -phobis, suicide, cutting, and many more potentially triggering subjects. if you feel uncomfortable at any time, stop reading. Resume your reading if you get ahold of yourself. If you don't feel like you can read further, please don't. I don't wish to burden you, and I definitely don't wish to give you suicidal thoughts.
January. January. Late fucking January, just a week or so after I posted last here. It was a beautiful, freezing day outside, and I was bedridden. Unable to feed myself anything solid, besides popsicles and saltines, a modified BRAT diet that might've been called the "SP" diet instead. On my first day of sickness, I was a miserable little shit, I couldn't leave my bed without the urge to puke after about 8 PM on that first day. That's how ill I felt. Keep in mind that this girl never falls ill.
The second day was more or less mediocre, I ate sliiightly more food. And on that night, well, that's when the Nasujima Incident ensued.....
Ohhhh, you don't know what the Nasujima Incident is? Yeah, you shouldn't.
Unless you're a devout tumblr follower of me, on my new url, and even my older nasubacon url, you wouldn't know. You wouldn't know unless you were fucking involved in the fandom Nasujima's from either.
That my friends, is the Durarara fandom.
Now, let me spare you the details. Takashi Nasujima is an absolute creep, but to me, he for some reason is a hot creep. I'm disgusting like that, I guess. I've liked him since the first run through DRRR even if I never approved of his actions. Anyway, one day, I came across a lovely post on tumblr saying that Nasujima had no redeeming qualities whatsoever and was a fucking horrible person. It had no notes and no attention. Honestly, if I'd never searched the mobile tag in the first place, I never would've found it. The person hadn't even brazenly tagged the hate, it only happened to pull up due to tumblr's screwed up mobile search system, which not only includes tags, but keywords.
Moving along, I replied to that. And so, ensued the shitstorm. Me and "R", yeah sure, let's call them "R"..... had quite a bit in common, whether we agreed or not. Meaning we both shared teenage cockiness. And our opinions had to be shoved up one another's asses. R indirectly referenced me and blocked me. I got pissed. So began the argument.
It's so dumb to even speak of the argument or mention the words said in hindsight. Because it was all, you know, based on opinion. Problem is, as bratty little teenagers, we had to force other people to agree with us, whether they liked it or not, because we felt, in certain situations, that we were always right. Except, we were acting unlike teenagers and more like two little kids; albeit more mature in terms of vocabulary and speech... though I'm sure underneath our breath we were both muttering curses and insults like a couple of 11 year old boys.
I accidentally misgendered R, not even knowing much about the existence of agender people at that time. I learned quickly that misgendering R on accident would reward me NO favors with the fandom. Though that was the most minor of issues. Nobody labeled me as transphobic, though I'm sure, in the back of people's minds, my accidental misconceptions sat.
Continuing on, after a few days of silence between me and the fandom as a whole, I finally apologized to R. I felt it'd be the best course of action in such a situation. There was no way I was going to admit that I wanted to grab them by the throat and strangle them. Violence was no answer to the situation. R accepted my apologies. We became mutuals.
In the next few weeks, things that were once again peaceful between us went sour.... though they mainly went sour due to my worries rather than R. We've made up now, but those days, those days darkened my thoughts........
I had become suicidal by March, specifically, circa Spring Break. I skied for the first time... I wiped out on the bunny hill, on my first day. But even before then, I was eaten alive by my depression, which had been ongoing since October... gradually worsening with every incident I involved myself in. My self esteem sunk so low. I could no longer see any beauty in myself, just the hollow husk of a girl that was left. So, you could imagine that I was not thinking highly enough of myself, to think that I deserved to live.
I remember spending days crying in my bed for no apparent reason, but nothing is quite as memorable as the last day I spent not skiing...... when I wrote "fucked up world.docx". It's a word document that sits in my folder. It's something I am afraid to delete. It's something that I spent an hour, if not more, composing. It almost has the structure of a suicide note, speaking of my battles from age 7 - current; with depression, anxiety, and other undiagnosed conditions.
But it's not...
Here's a chunk of everything that was said:
Trigger Warning: If you are having any suicidal thoughts, I HIGHLY SUGGEST YOU SKIP THIS SECTION. The entire thing is italicized and typeset in Arial. So it shouldn't be too hard to distinguish it from the rest of the text.
What am I worth anymore? What am I? What have I become? There’s nothing ‘good’ here, anymore, all that remains is the vile, sensitive core. Everyone’s made me the fool. I’m so sick of the ignorance, the hatred, and the lack of friendships, even on the internet. I feel like, if I don’t see something reassuring, constantly, I’ll die. I only continue to live because my body is too strong to just drop dead. I wish it would, though. I wish it would die, along with all my failed aspirations.
Years ago, when I was a kid, I had some faith in myself. Sure, I was nervous, and I served as everyone’s personal elbow rest, but I was more content. I had friends. I had hopes. My professions, what I wanted to be when I ‘grew up’, those changed daily. I was so stupid, and so blinded to the horrors of the world. My parents sheltered me. Not nearly so much as, say, Amish parents, but they sheltered me quite a bit. No muttering of ‘fuck’ came from my mouth till about age 12. I watched mainly PG movies. Attended private school. I was a clean cut, preppy girl who spent her days receiving a pretty decent education, as well as chasing boys on the playground. I can’t believe I was ever that happy, looking back.
Then, something hit. I couldn’t feel as happy as I did before. I couldn’t feel the gratification I used to for my achievements. I was eight. People don’t tell you when depression hits, because there’s no direct correlation between age and depression. It can happen at any time. For many it hits first in their teens, but I began to feel it at, yeah, you read that correctly. Eight. My parents were concerned by my sudden lack of enthusiasm, seeing how I’d always been a nervous, yet happy child.
I can’t remember how many actual psychiatrists I saw and how many false diagnoses were given, as to what I was ‘suffering’ from. All I remember is many, many, many emotion related board games. Then they found her. I can’t refer to her by her actual name; so I’ll just call her N.
Eventually, she decided to prescribe me medication. Medication. Meant for teenagers, adults. Not meant for me. I mean, sure, it would’ve been more appropriate if I was, what eleven, but, I was eight. My parents somehow agreed with N that meds were the best course of action, to resolve my problems.
It’s been nearly ten years since then. I still take them. I’m too reliant to wean off them anymore. Nothing will ever fulfill me like that teeny, rounded white pill. Trust me, I’ve tried to discard them, lose them, and spit them out after sticking them under my tongue. But when I do, that familiar feeling returns, and I force myself to take them; again, again, again. This will probably be an endless cycle.
M’s bullying made me think things. As in, things like “perhaps the world would be fine without me”, or “I’m worthless”. She constantly told me so, and because she was influential, I believed her. I believed her words; I believed the bullshit she fed me on a silver fucking platter. What was I compared to her? Just a lower tier popular who she could stomp on at any given time.
That’s when I started wanting to kill myself.
The first attempt started when I was home alone. You could say I’ve had about five suicide attempts if you count my first ones. They’re significant, but at the same time, they’re of such low importance. Their severity’s nowhere near that of my latter attempts.
That day, my depression had been pestering me. At full force. I couldn’t feel anything. I was so numb. M had, as usual, bullied me.
I don’t recall everything, but what I can remember easily is me mixing a few of my mother’s pills and then swallowing them dry. I can remember calling both my parents and telling them that I didn’t want to live anymore and that they’d be fine without me. Rookie mistake. One of the rules of suicide: don’t tell your love ones that you’re going to commit suicide.
My parent’s relationship, while always stormy, was worsening. I begged them not to fight; I constantly begged them to stop fighting for me and my younger sister’s sake. We didn’t want to hear about debts. We didn’t want to hear about lack of sexual contact in the bedroom either. We wanted to shut it all out. Then maybe, we thought, it would go away. Forever, and never come back.
That’s not the case.
They filed for divorce, in what, April of that year? It was relatively close to the end of the school year.
My mother had a seizure about the time that she was supposed to have divorce hearings with my dad. She cracked the tile with her head. She fainted. She could have died. It’s a wonder that she didn’t.
She was so ill. To see her be so frail, I was more scared of her than I was relieved that she was okay. After her release from the hospital, she was a literal zombie. She slept hours at a time. She outgrew all her clothes, she was skin and bones. As selfish as it seems, I can say I partially blame my bodily woes at the time on her. I know she couldn’t help her excess weight loss, it was a side effect of the drug, and a decreased appetite, but during that time, I fucking hated her for being so skinny. That’s about the time I developed a short lived eating disorder
In the meantime, my father left. My father left. He had to leave for work, he said. It was a definite form of abandonment for me. Even though my father wasn’t always around, he was there at the right times. And to have him suddenly leave, for weeks on end, it was fucking abominable to me. My mom makes sure to constantly remind me that my dad ‘abandoned us’.
Though I don’t want to admit anything to her, she’s right. He did, essentially, leave. Couldn’t handle the conflict properly, or take care of my sick mother. It seems so disgusting in hindsight. I can’t believe I’ve mostly forgiven him for it.
I spent many days in the woods, by myself, after school, at night. It was my go to place. Sure, I was hardly interested in physical activity at the time. Yeah, I definitely detested exercise. Though that place, that place was calming. Nature gave me a sense of security, I guess. My favorite spot sat by the creek, near a makeshift rock bridge. I brought my notebooks with me, I wrote my fanfiction, my stories, there. They were one of the only consistent things in my life at the time. I wrote sheets upon sheets of character exposition and pages of crack couple stories. I hid them from everyone, because I feared they’d read them. I even wrote the most disgusting, inexperienced smut. Those were my peak days, in terms of writing. My feelings were so powerful, that when I placed them on paper, the words flowed beautifully. Anime and writing, those were my escapes from reality. I couldn’t take living a miserable real life. So I relied on my fictional ones as a crutch.
I tried to end my life again at the end of sixth grade. June, summer. My parents sent me to a residential center. I remember nearly everyone from the first visit. The most memorable being a girl named “Crystal” who literally walked on broken glass as an act of rebellion against her parents. I remember having some sort of fun, in spite of the circumstances. Sure, I was trapped with a bunch of mentally skewed people, but they were at least understandable, fellow teenagers. I couldn’t deny that I was mentally skewed myself.
When I got out, I was more confident in my abilities, my academics, and my ability to defend myself against bullies. Of course, as one would expect, my hopes took a nosedive as soon as I entered school again. They continued to kick me down. Relentlessly.
I cut for three years, nearly. I cut jagged, horizontal scars on my wrists. During the winter, I covered them with long sleeves, in the summer, hoodies hid them; some days, my wrists were bare. People saw them, they didn’t ask questions. I was successfully able to hide them from mom and dad for months. If I manipulated the position of my wrists, they weren’t even visible. I told a friend. I can’t remember where or when I first heard about cutting, I can’t even recall when I first slit my wrists.
The pain served as escapism from my shitty reality. My reality sucked. I wanted to show, that in some way, I could handle pain, that I could survive pain. I wanted to show that I wasn’t weak, as everyone assumed I was. That’s primarily why I cut myself. My cuts weren’t deep, they were rather shallow, but they scarred. If I could handle the pain of my own wrists being cut, I wasn’t weak. That was my rationality…
I tried to commit suicide in May of eighth grade year. My parents sent me to the same place, for the second time. I found a friend there. It almost hurt me to say goodbye to that girl, after two weeks. The hospital forbade exchanges of numbers and whatnot to encourage further recovery. She was such a sweet girl, but so, so broken. She came from divorced parents too, and I never saw her dad. She hardly saw mine. We understood each other’s situations; and had one parent that had, in some way, abandoned us. However, I never truly forget that girl. She sits in the back of my mind. I wonder if she’s happy. I wonder if she’s relapsed. I wonder if she still thinks about me.
I spent two years at an academy, accomplishing nothing. I had more self discovery there than anywhere else. One could say it wasn’t half bad. Unlike middle school, no one tortured me, but at the same time, no one wanted to befriend me either. I went weeks without real peer socialization.If there were a word I would use to describe myself at that time, it would be “lonely”. I spent my days goofing off in class, writing endless ramblings on anime forums, watching anime.
In 2011, or perhaps, 2012, I found Durarara. The epitome of a life ruining anime.
Have you ever grown so attached to a fucking character, with little to no explanation whatsoever, besides you just like them? Those were my feelings when I first saw episode five. I was a fucking idiot, transitioning from a suicidal, emo phase, to a more mature, idiot phase. I didn’t know what to think. I didn’t know. I just… liked him from the moment I saw that section of episode five (sexy harasho indeed). Takashi. Motherfucking. Nasujima. Life ruiner extraordinaire.
It’s not like I didn’t know his actions were wrong. I found his vagueness interesting. I admit, I felt like I could exploit that vagueness. And I did. When I finished the series, I began writing my own, idiotic, abusive backstory. I poured my heart into it. I didn’t know why I loved that character so much, but at the time, I didn’t care. I didn’t care what other people thought.
I spent the beginning and the summer 2012 working out, and starving myself constantly to obtain my ideal body. Even though I tried to see myself as skinny or pretty after, I couldn’t. For all I saw was the fat I hadn’t burned off and the way my legs jiggled. I only eat dinner most days. I’ve been eating better lately, but the way it’s making me gain is literally fucking killing me. All my hard work, down the drain, for some goddamn FOOD. Food. I don’t need that much of it to live.
Since October, I’ve been in an endless funk. Every day is so surreal, like it’s not even me controlling my body or my actions anymore. I’m a zombie. No matter how I sleep, my fatigue doesn’t improve. The bags under my eyes are slightly more prominent, every sleepless night. I’ve slowly, but surely, been working on my academics, but at this point don’t feel as if I’ll graduate on time, if ever. The desire I have to drop out and earn a GED later? That desire increases every day. The motivation is gone. I’m not really living. My organs function, and my body isn’t in a state of paralysis, but I don’t feel alive. If it were up to me, I would spend 75% of my time sleeping.
After last month’s fight, I’m going to be honest; I’ve been a fucking wreck. I feel like I’ve been reduced to the bottom of the barrel. I feel like everyone hates me. I literally see no point in living if my existence is useless. I am worthless. People say they’d miss me if I died. I don’t believe them. I don’t fucking believe them. I’m just this pedo loving, bacteria of a girl. I’m a clingy bitch to anyone who offers me a bit of kindness. I can’t let things go. I’ve always held grudges, but never one like this before. If tumblr doesn’t kill me, if this incidence, if my self-hatred doesn’t kill me, if nature doesn’t kill me, if Nasujima doesn’t kill me, I’m likely going to kill myself.
What will become of me, if I die? I’ll be remembered as nothing besides a bitch on the internet who liked an unpopular character and a snappy, relatively quiet person IRL. I won’t be remembered as anyone special, except to my family. Though, the way they talk to me sometimes, I don’t think they want me living either. They already know I’m an impending failure. They know I’m a highly suicidal risk. They probably wouldn’t be surprised
I’m destined to die someday; I don’t see the point in living till old age. What’s the point of living if I’m only going to forget everything about my past? What’s the point in living this miserable existence? You tell me. You tell me. I’m not even prepared for adulthood at this point. It’s survival of the fittest, right? Well, what if I’m not strong enough to survive?
Stop telling me I’m worth something, I’m not. Stop telling me to get up and try again. I’m. Not. Strong. Enough. I’ve already proven that, multiple times. Why do you still have any faith in me? WHY DO YOU HAVE THIS DELUSION THAT I CAN SURVIVE? WHAT IF I DON’T WANT TO SURVIVE?
I’m Audrey, middle name Taylor, seventeen years, seven months, nineteen days; the product of two screwed up individuals breeding, an asocial bitch through and through. I was screwed up from the moment my mom gave fucking birth to me. I have had to suffer with the burden of genetic disorders for my entire life. The world has used me as its punching bag. Even the internet has demeaned me.
I have pills, I have knives. I have so many things available to me to aid me in ending my life. But I’m not going to end it tonight. I’m going to end it when I’m eighteen. Then my parents won’t have to deal with the burden of their underage daughter dying. Then I’ll be responsible for my own death. Watch me.
---- It’s 1:27 AM. I am sobbing, I have fat tears pouring down my face, and my nose is dribbling with snot. I look fucking ugly. I look fucking horrible. I hate everything and everyone. I want to sleep it off, but not even sleep can fully solve the problems I have. I’m beyond help.
There, that was my breaking point. It took many, many messages, to convince me to put the razor I held in my fucking hand down, and it took a lot of courage from me to not pick it back up. Just weeks earlier, I'd relapsed, if only slightly. I slit two jagged, ugly scars on my left wrist. My dad and sister stopped me. Those who sent me messages stopped me .... again.
If not for my own willingness to try and pick myself up, and the support of those around me, I might be dead right now. I am still suffering depression. I am still suicidal, even if slightly. I still value the opinions of others HIGHLY above my own, especially if they're opinions of me. But I am slowly healing. I thought I wasn't strong enough to overcome my feelings, I thought I wasn't strong enough to continue to live... but I made it through everything. That brings a new burst of self confidence, and for once, self love, something I have so little of. I run an active RP blog now, since I feel freer there than my personal blog. I'm portraying Nasujima in ways I never thought I could, while improving my writing skills. I feel a fucking glint of happiness. I can see a brighter day. I can genuinely wake up in the morning with a smile on my face, even if it's in my nature to hate the morning. It's beautiful!