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mind of illness: s e l f h a r m

Happy Monday to everyone! These past few weeks I’ve been thinking so much about my state of mind… I’m currently at peace, and I’m so happy that after all of my years of pain and addiction, I could finally reflect in a constructive manner. I used to sit back, high as a kite, thinking about how much of a victim I was, but not once did I think about taking back control of my life and making a positive change.

Instead, I’d rely on destroying my body. With drug use and through self-harm. I’d find myself cutting my wrists, and writing across my torso with the same knife I’d sharpen each week.

Which brings me to my fourth piece of my “Mind Of Illness” collection. I really hope my readers can find peace in knowing that you’re not alone in the world! I’ve met so many people that feel as if they have no one and resort to self harm and destructive tendencies. Self-isolation can be very harmful for oneself but I also understand that sometimes we don’t have a choice. Escapism is something we all practice.

With that being said, we all have different needs, and we all respond to support differently. Shit, I used to have my son’s mother as my only source of support. But now I’m alone. I’m just happy I was able to find myself, because I would’ve killed myself the second she left me if I still had the same mentality I did back at the peak of my addiction and distraught state of mind.. I hope those that suffer from mental illness and addiction can also find peace and realize how precious their lives truly are.

So again, thank you all for reading, here is my next piece;

mind of illness: s e l f h a r m

I don’t even know what day it is anymore…The sun and moon are all I have to even guess what time of day it is. The lack of feeling has become too overwhelming, so I tally the rise and lowering of both sun and moon on each arm, just to feel something… Even if it is pain, I just don’t care anymore… I need to at least pretend I have some sense of control over this life of chaos. Shit, I used to cry just to remind myself I still have a heart… but my tear ducts are all dried up. I don’t even know if my heart still pulses.

I’ve spilt every single emotion from the tip of my pen to the once blank paper, now covered in heartbreak, hate, and blood. I’ve filled over three notebooks within the span of a week and not once have I gone back to reread what I’ve written… I just can’t handle the reminder of how broken I truly am… I’m running out of ink but my emotions continue to overflow. If I can’t let them out onto paper, they’ll only drip out of the slits on each wrist. Staining my floor with a puddle of hopelessness mixed within the blood.

I constantly ask myself why I even bother to write. It’s not a passion, I don’t expect anyone to read it, majority the time I don’t even know what I’m trying to say… what picture am I painting for my tiny, tiny audience?

Am I sober?

Am I happy?

Am I sad?

Am I on the brink of death?

I don’t know…


I have no idea, but the soothing sound of my pen sliding across the paper keeps my mind tranquil…

Even though, I can still feel death looming outside of my room. Waiting for me to open the door. Waiting for me to go in search for the source of that light gleaming under its threshold. Truth be told, I know that eventually, I will meet death once again. For our dance is a predestined ordeal. Yet, I do not feel a sense of fear, because out of the many faces it has, I look forward to meeting the next.

See, I am a realist, and I acknowledge that freedom isn’t written in my book. The fate of a sinner cannot be changed. Though, lately escape is all I’ve been seeing at the end of the tunnel. I do not search for that light beaming under my door, I have no interest in glamour. Instead, I desire a way out. I yearn for an escape from this tedious life of numbness.

I want to believe that my blood is more than just my emotions overflowing. I need to feel more than just pain and a severed connection from the world I once dreamed of seeing. Perhaps a meaningful bond is the cure to this self-inflicted isolation.

I hold on to a tiny spec of hope that there is more to my life than just notebooks filled with stories others never enjoy, songs that no one will dance to, and poems that have no end… In my mind, I know that my emotions are more than just a transfer of ink to paper… Those notebooks are a passage that will lead readers into the depths of my heart. Similar to how each scar depicts the most intimate details of my life.

-jay. “mind of illness”