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23 Jul 2005

The story of me so far... you might find it interesting to read if u have time
Asphyxiation of dreams. Will consciousness be able to reflect between a state of sleep or fight for life? What in these dreams would exist when reality’s nightmare is hard enough to believe in.Where is the safer state? It was indispensable she identify the limit of the dream before she woke. She never dreamt nor woke. I still feel she hasn’t completely. Who believes in these dreams and the pieces of segmented fragments this wreckage has become floating upon the surface of pretence. Who is there to read these words, leave them safetly in the right place and assist a girl in attempting giving them up? Whilst busy changing the meaning through syntax, she’s subconsiously changing her order of existance through what she’s trying to discover. Now where is the secure position to tell her story when her emotions are bluntly deprived in a word, thoughts intensely annihilated in a line and stories carelessly obliterated through a scarred but blank page?

The taint tastes of the need for that malevolent dream, how it all began vividly but with such valour. The endings sweet release will palpably one day do her well, she thinks, she hopes. Her future reigns with a self assuring over confidence. Her past flourished with poise. Her present is forced by fear. All she recalls from yesterday is apprehension. All she feels lurking now is inscrutability. She no longer contains memory of what innocence withheld. The blamelessness, the incorruptibility yet the inexperience of life is all too much for her mind to speculate. She always could identify her differences, turning to the opposed pages to cause incomprehensibility. Often before had she found the bliss in solitude. Her mind was what intrigued her most and still does, it acted upon a elevating magnitude in a make-believe conspiracy against the world. Perhaps it was this intricate diminutive thing that caused her all the danger when immorality was established. It began. She knows this truth best. From then, it sprawled out of her head. It came to life, It became unwantingly factual, documented and told. These steps escorted their way into fury as panic detailed into a commoness of classified mental illnesses. This wasn’t out to be obtained.

Without wanting to be it, she had to live it. She was it, and seen as it she soon felt it. Remorse for her syndrome deteriorated, she grew impassive and detached from sense. The sickess hardened and etched with time, training her mind to believe as it desired. She soon could experience the value of her disease without repentance and without the stigma. She needed to learn the meaning of contrition for herself first and then for those whom she cherished. The boy she loved was unsure of how to encounter the battle, this made her weak, he fell pathetically to her knees…he still does. Then the judgment came and she realised, time and her were the enemy. Everyone knew the infection had become inflexible and it was almost too hard to revolve her back to where she once belonged.

Flying for asphyxiation, she asked for help. Was she prepared? What had become her true and constant deviation? She simply couldn’t find what it was she might attenuate. Magic turned to dust, blood as common as water, tears of fire. Daily she feels the sting; it’s so valid, constantly there. She seizes to care but continues to be completely apprehensive. Death had made her a grand reservation, she was aware of this and simultaneously relieved yet still non responsive.Nothing could edge her forward to encourage her to make herself better. It was all a nonentity. It was all an an ineffective exertion, a coldwar. She took time off from what they thought and herself. Her need for isolation and insanity pressed her to edge them all away. The year came abrubtly to an end. She pushed it drunkly away. He lost her that day, she never lost him. He still lives there with her, she still never forgets him. She never forgets anything.

That was then. Today she is a world apart. Oddments between are mere mental hazards on a painted canvas of imperfection. A complicated mess, she never was an artist. It seems no one ever understood or saw the picture. She longed for yesterday’s simplicity, when food was the solitary rival. Who is her soul enemy today?Is it the food, herself, her mind, the men, her demons, the alcohol, her friend, the razor, the knife, the substances, the medication, the missed oppurtunities, the world? If only she conceivably knew. It is of little importance who the clash is against now, it all ends up being in antagonism to herself. Ironically she understands a great deal in this life, just perhaps chooses to neglect her own knowledge about the simpler effects. It developed the tendency to become her very own ritual to which she must know learn her own self defense. She created an affinity for the perplexity the pain brought alongside.

The time approached when disfiguration was introduced. This came with the symptom of substantial limitations, as physical and mental weakness intertwined and became inevitable. This fed upon their questionable theory and devoured her self esteem. They thrived upon the miniscule facts they did perhaps piece together collectively on a string which she was inadvertently hanging on. She wants to show them their aspiration. They were just selfishly and uncaringly waiting for it to break. So was she, she did’t want this weak foundation made with no substance, it was already intoxicated by them. So she began to carve out the story she wanted. It was the story she saw in her head, told by her without them. It began with that weapon that so artlessly began the war. She carved the first indentation.

She established a leisurable pursuit in all things leading closer to death. It became her fixation on coping. Then it became her addiction and now they have become her problems. She wanted to be left in pure isolation. She needs that daily fix. She needs the release of fresh blood to go under her own sedation without it being complicated. The absense of her past friend and that boy found her in monotonous searches for something, as it left much pain; beyond any ever felt before. She filled that vacant place by satisfying it with all the detrimental drugs; it could induce the emptiness yet also brought about her droning worthlessness. The world angered her; the pure satisafaction of these ‘bad things’ infuriated her even more. She would not stop. She holds the buzz that can perhaps save the nation. She’s half way to becoming intoxicated. The world around her was always ingenuously inebriated; she is only learning to become part of that lethal act.

She is cast aside for the duration. Blades, pills…where are her feelings dedicated? Suicidal dreams fill the void, drug induced pupils dilate, shattering her fragile mind into pieces. Which girl inside her, which people, which thoughts, which actions, what voices… what is real? She loses control; she cannot differentiate what is real in this state.

She now lives precariously; it’s how she endures the impossible. Her life precedes the risks. She enjoys it so much but is equally aware of how her life is balanced in the hands of mistrust. It brought along life altering circumstances she cannot change, which she would have been able to, if she had only thought more rapidly, acted more smoothly and played it all just a little safer.

Too -|- ing late for ‘WHAT IF’S.’ Their physical and emotional violation was her scar upon all scars; it couldn’t get any deeper than this isolation and insanity. This altitude is beyond gone in the brain. She now hacks at these unhealable wounds to rid these scars, yet these wounds won’t heal. The cuts never mend, the blood will not stop. The desire to sever will not stop. The stories will not end. She will be addicted, along with everything else as long as the pain is there. Who inflicted this last final blow?

She retaliates against him and his pain inflicting force, as he becomes conceited within her mind. A messed up child just left completely disorientated and taken aback from what these men forced her to do. She’s trying to wake up from this all. It’s all so unreal, she’s still left dizzy from it all. She never sobered up completely. Not able to speak. It is truly killing her inside, she knows these men are still after her. They’re not done with her. She is unable to talk because no one can talk to her about them. They are too afraid to,no one seems to know how or is able to be brave enough to face her or these gruesome facts either. What do they fear, is it something within her?

The issue seems to linger on mistreated and unrecognised, as she chooses to leave it in fear; it’s the easy way out for her and for those trying to help her. She lied with regard to certain specifics of her tormenting event to make it all alright, so she’d be left alone at a sensitive time; and to yield her shame. It was an extremely crucial time but too much of a daunting stage, she wasn’t ready to face it then and only yearned for it to be gone and buried in the nonexistant past. At present it hassles her, the nakedness of the real truth that no one knows. It is only of regret now that she didn’t confess then that she needed more help than she received; but she can forgive herself.

She at least let someone of trust in. She was already sufficiently intimidated that someone knew. It will never heal if she doesn’t make it. Can she try if she never exudes emotionless guilt or divulges out her hurt? She must speak; they must ask what it is she experienced then and feels today. They never do. They purely do not know much.The grotesque happenings of it all go heavily masked. This fragile issue smears upon her heavy at a time when all she wishes to do is move forward. She wants to speak her mind now, it is perhaps nearly of right time. Let her cleanly express the real words of the affair which holds such dirt in her mind. The brink of it all has become unestablished. Where is the threshold of her infringement point?

Where to from this page, where ink came so close? We’ve repeatedly heard that same line over and over again yet the linear sequence of self destruction seems to hold no end. Time impatiently moves hastily, nothing waits for her. Blurred and distorted images become a vague impression of her countless attempts in trying to recover, perhaps she is too far down the line. She is in an enhanced and better space than she was last year. She has advanced forward in her head. She still longs for that boy. She still cries for that friend. She continued on with her life. Yet everything is the same. She coped, she struggles now. She is only seventeen. She is only still a girl. This is perhaps the beginning of a chance for success or this is the drawing end of a nightmare to talk about for some time to come.

There are two paths left for her now. Simply only two ways to go, she’s been everywhere before and it’s all getting old now. The challenges she has faced. It’s death of a troubled girl or simply her wellbeing. Can she opt for one she correctly desires in her state? Basic actions lead to her demise. Drained and disfigurated she loses her words she desperately wanted to speak. Out of temptation she takes in the steal, loses blood and shows her appreciation. That sophisticated level can never be the same. She has run out of her medication and someone said she needs to be dedicated. Someday, oneday, flying for that elevation she might just make it.

Hope if any of u read it you enjoyed it, I want to write when Im older and leave school so i can eventually write about my illnesses so I can help other people come to terms with the realism of these mental illnesses that are an everyday reality for people like me.
Answer 318 views
Teen expert
teen expert

01 Jan 0001

Thanks for writing what you did and I amsure it will help others to read about your experiences

Thank you and best wishes
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