I am sorry for not editing, I can't read what I write. Maybe you shouldn't either. I just know I'm in this deep black hole and I have no idea how to get up again. I'm afraid that soon they are going to start filling this hole up with me in it. I guess I am trying to tell them I am down here, help me get up...
So it would appear as if I am back again. Hopefully I can manage to keep my Internet working now for a while. I am not sure if I can stay though. If you read my previous post you know I am not exactly feeling to good at the moment. Quite the contrary, to be honest. But as I said before, I think, I have promised to try to stay alive so I try. I don’t know if I said that, I didn’t read my last post before I published it. I don’t remember what I wrote and to some degree I don’t care. It’s as if nothing really matters anymore. And maybe, in my case, that’s a good thing. I have a new Instagram account and after only a few days I have five times as many followers as my previous got in almost a year. My photos get likes from people other than my friends, who are kind of obligated to like my stuff, right? I go out and take new pictures every day, more or less. I take the walks that are so important for the healing of my body. My back doesn’t hurt as much or maybe I just can’t feel it anymore since this new pain is so much stronger. There’s no way you can understand how it hurts even if I could find a way to remove the pain from my person and put it in writing. The razor blades cutting my throat with every breathe I take. The amount of force I need to exercise to even be able to draw another breath when all I really want is to stop altogether. I know, I promised. I try. There’s this heavy block of emptiness in my chest making it practically impossible. I can’t eat, food just piles up in my mouth, swallowing is another razor sharp pain in my throat. A throat so closed it feels like I am choking. It feels as if I had those big, squeezing hands trying to strangle me again. Not that I remember what it felt like. I just remember it wasn’t a scary thought, knowing I was going to die. I was ready to go. I wish I had. That he had held on just a second longer or squeezed just a little bit harder. If I really had died that day, in that walk-in closet room I wouldn’t be feeling like this. I wouldn’t have felt anything. I would have missed out on everything that came before as well. Do I wish it all to be gone? That nothing ever happened? Do I regret ever being me, the Ishi I am to most of you? Ishi, who will be one year old in November. I hate her. Yes, I think I wish she’d never been. But no. I don’t think I really mean that. I don’t want everything to be gone. There were good times. I think. Maybe. Before the pain, I think some times were good, maybe not worth it considering, but I can’t really tell. All I know is that I am not really feeling too well. I feel sick. And my head is hurting from all the crying. How can I still have so many tears? I feel like I should be drained from all fluids by now, but they keep coming. Probably will for a long time. Probably… I say that wrong, apparently. I don’t care. It doesn’t matter. Remember how I used to freak out about my English, my accent, spelling, grammar? I don’t care anymore. Doesn’t matter anymore, nothing matters anymore. So, it’s not perfect! Sue me! I’ve stopped caring.
I’m not really sure if anything matters anymore. Why do I care that my new Instagram has more followers than the old one? Or that my photos get likes? It’s stupid. Same with my twitter. I did always follow back but that kind of ended when I lost my WiFi. Recently I tried to catch up and now I have loads of people following me again. Spamming follows. I don’t care about my twitter anymore, I only kept it to talk to my bestie anyway. And how else would my old Pokemon friend find me after all this time to get the sweet revenge only karma can provide. I am talking about my main account not the LoM one. Although I don’t really care too much about any account as such I still care about the people from the lords of Minecraft server and from Phedran’s. Thanks for your support, it means a lot to me. More than you can imagine. I’m the type of person who runs and hides when thing get bad. I don’t ask for help. Maybe that’s why I am writing all of this in a blog instead of finding a friend to talk to. I get to vent while still keeping my distance. I know people will read it, people I know, people who might comment and/or try to talk to me about it, but right now I can kind of pretend that isn’t the case. I mean it’s not like I am talking to someone in particular. I mean… I don’t know what I mean. I don’t know why I am doing this. I read on Instagram, hahaha, my new addiction, before it used to be I read on Twitter… Someone on Instagram had a quote, I don’t remember who from, but it said that we have a need to share. What we write, our photos, our thoughts. Maybe they help others, maybe not. At east if you follow me you will always be reminded that you aren’t the weirdest person on earth, you’re not the craziest, most pathetic, saddest, not the most depressed or hurting person still alive. Not the only one trying the best you can to stay alive though there seems to be very little point in going on. I will always be that person and I have the nerve to put it in writing and publishing it to the world, for anyone to read as if anyone would be interested. Either way is fine by me. I don’t care anymore. Nothing really matters anymore anyway. I’ve lost everything that ever had any meaning, but I still try to stay alive through every painful breath I take.
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