Astron Chapters

I'm feeling overwhelmed. I haven't really sat here and analyzed my feelings for the longest time, and the last time I truly did, it ended with me almost completely losing myself. I don't like looking into myself because it involves throwing up really horrible thoughts, decisions, actions. But I don't know, I just feel that it's time. It's gotten the point where I can't even recognize my feelings and I'm just drifting through life with a pained look on my face. That's not a way to live. And my entire life I've always considered having emotions a bad thing, however boyish that may sound. Even today, and I quote, "If you see me cry, I will hunt you down and kill you." Why is it such a big deal to cry? To fucking CRY? It's not like I'm performing open-heart surgery on the last panda on planet earth, no sir. It's just the thing that I cannot do, but I know will make me feel so much better. I don't know.
I just don't think I've utilized this blog for any good reasons.... It's just sitting here, pretty vacant (song reference). I know no one reads it anymore, and so I'm just going to say whatever the fuck I want. To hell with it! It's just me speaking to myself, anyway.

I have a habit that I've had for many years. Since seventh grade, I think. Early 2008, that long ago. I was just a young thing and I'd heard through the grapevine that this made you feel better. I was going through the emotional turmoil every middle schooler suffers through, so I did it. I wish I never had. It was around that time that I seriously contemplated suicide. I've thought about it many times before, but it was at that point where I had everything laid out, literally. The note, the pills, the blade, the pillow, everything. Someone very special helped me out of that hole that night, and I'll always appreciate that. It's been a long road since then, filled with spaces of four or five months and terrible, horrible relapses that left me massacred, practically. And the worst thing is that I did it to myself. I did it throughout 2008, even after my mother found out and threatened to have me shipped off because of it. I think the worst thing is that instead of helping me through the issues, she guilted me into stopping. She made it sound as though I was doing this just to get back at her, like her previous kids and their issues weren't enough, me being a normal person with my own issues was just 'too much for her to handle', that instead of 'slowly killing myself' I should just get it over with. That I should kill myself. "Just go upstairs and do it, then. I'll clean up." She'd move on, apparently. No skin off her back! Yeah, this may be some selective memory, but these things were said, and I just sort of sat there and took it. That was almost three years ago and since then, every time anything miniscule happens, she's rushing over, demanding I show her my arms and my ankles and anywheres else where the marks would be. I couldn't take it, so I stopped. For a summer, I walked around like a zombie and said nothing, did nothing, just moving through the paces of life with this huge burden on my back. And finally, the thing that had caused me all of these problems was the thing I went back to. That was early 2009. I dappled in it a bit, I suppose. Nothing major. Later in 2009 I started at a school where nothing really seemed to fit. I was a social outcast, and that killed me. It really did. I'm not used to not being able to get along with people, and no matter what I did, it seemed as though I couldn't keep up. Whether it was my grades, or the parties I wasn't invited to, that one guy who would later cause so much shit, I just couldn't take it. I relapsed so badly Fall 2009, and since then I've sort of said, "Fuck it."
Now it seems every two months or so, it just hits me in the face. Ten, twenty, forty. I think at one point I had around seventy. Nothing severe in terms of depth, but the amounts. It was staggering. Right now it's such a huge part of my life, and I'm so passive about it. I think I have twenty on me right now, not a large number for me, so it's whatever. I don't think anything of it, anymore. Not that many people know, no one sees. It's an old friend to me, and I'm not dying from it. I don't plan on dying from it. I haven't had a scare since 2008 and I intend to keep it that way. I see no wake up call in my future, and I'm just so indifferent. I'm okay, and I know I shouldn't be. It's just routine now.
And um. I don't know what else to say. I feel like I shouldn't have said any of this. Displaying all of this private information is terrifying, to me. I don't talk to anyone about it save two people. One who is leaving my life, the other who can't do or say anything about it. And I'm okay. It feels right. This all feels right.
So I guess I'll just keep it where it is now.