An insight into the earlier workings of my messed up mind.

I found this, wrote it in January 2010...

"I walked towards the kitchen, with mixed feelings of angst and a deep hatred towards myself.
This was the third time I was to attempt it.
Quietly I opened the drawer, & took our the first knife that I lay my hands on. Taking it closer to my chest, I see it glimmer in the moonlight that beams in from the windows above me. I press the point into my chest. The tip makes a small hole in my shirt. I can feel a slight pinch as it makes contact with my skin. This time I push it harder, but I can go through with it. No matter how much I'd like to, I can't do it.
As disappointed as I am with myself for not 'finishing the job', I had known from the start that I was incapable of self harm.
I sit myself back down on the couch and glance at the clock. It's 3:30am. Great. Leaning back, I close my eyes and sigh.

Mum had always blamed herself for the way I turned out. She thought that somehow it was her fault that I couldn't control my emotions or even my mind.
But it's not mum's fault...after all, I'm the one always worrying for no reason. I'm the one depressed, wanting a neverending escape. I'm the one who has trouble eating because the thought of having to stomach something makes me physically sick.
Psychologists and Psychiatrists have always told me to get on top of my anxiety I'd have to get pissed off at it, and demand my life back. After all, it's technically just me arguing with myself.
But as pissed off as I am at myself for alway giving in and letting it take over, I can't seem to get on top of it.
Everytime things seem to get better, there's always something to shit on my parade & turns the days into crap.
It makes me want to cry, I'm so annoyed at myself.
Why couldn't I just get the job over and done with? I wouldn't have to suffer if I were dead.
I don't think my sister has ever believed me when I say I'm depressed. She can't seem to comprehend it. She'd always say "you're too young for that shit, you haven't got depression," which always made me feel shit because I felt as if I were lying about how I actually felt.

Again, I glance at the clock. 4:15. I've been sitting here, my mind whirring away for 45 fucking minutes.
I've come to the realization that nighttime isn't any good for my anxiety.
It gives me time to dwell on the bad feelings and no matter how hard I try I can't distract myself.

Despite all this, I'm getting better at putting on a brave face as if nothing were wrong when someone asks if I'm okay...


Yeah, I'm alright. Can't you tell?