After weeks of card trading i finally collected my old (and some new!) friends!! I missed out Bella, Roscoe and Tiffany but that’s okay ;w;
I made separate housing sections for them. The one are the rock-n-roll/edgy housings, and the one is glam/sweet housings. Shouldve just named it Red and Blue sector hahaha
i was a girl that he liked saving. i was set into his pocket so he could talk about how scary it was to watch me burn out the fiber of my lungs. he wrote poetry where i died and read it to me at night, asking if i felt any different. he would take my arms and kiss my scars and say he loved me in despite.
the work of mental illness is not a song lyric. i would call him, deep in a panic, and he’d tell me to just calm down. he would get annoyed when i wasn’t able to take trains anymore; said i was faking. i’d break down crying in the bathroom, he’d complain about the volume. i hounded him for validation; he said he didn’t want to praise me too much or i’d learn to expect it. “real life is different” was said so often i thought i’d never finish hearing it.
he loved my hipbones and skinny wrists but would get annoyed when i’d freak out about calorie contents. he called me “the party type” for getting drunk every night. he wrote a screenplay. in it i stab myself with a knife. he finds me on the floor and cries over me and goes on to be a doctor, saving lives.
he liked to joke that he “caught” ocd from me every time he straightened something. he loved talking about depression but never liked when i stopped functioning. it took me a long time to learn some people just want to be in your life to juice your story like a lemon into a glass jar. he wasn’t interested in being there; he was interested in being a savior. it wasn’t about me, it was about the story he could tell later. he didn’t love me. he loved the control.
the same thing happens every five months. i promise myself im going to get better. i buy a new notebook. i colorcode my lists. i take notes. i go to the gym and i eat healthy and i text my friends.
and one by one, effortless, i watch myself drop them again. my notebook becomes scribbles and what is wrong with me, why can’t i wake up? what is the point of a list, i’m not going to do it. notes are nothing, i’m not going to look back at them anyway. the gym is too tiring and i just want to eat whatever i can and my friends aren’t even really my friends, they’re just people who tolerate having me around.
sometimes the crawling back … just feels like too much. the cycle again, the new “this time i’ll be enough.”
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