I miss her. I miss her smile and I miss her eyes.
I miss her round cheeks and the touch of pink they held. I miss her small lips and I miss her odd eyebrows. I miss her frustrating hair and I miss her delicate fingers.
I miss her voice. I miss what words she'd form with that voice, which would form sentences which would form ideas which made more sense to me when she said them.
I miss the way she'd catch me looking at her and how she'd give a laugh.
I miss that most, her laugh.

I want to see her. I have to see her. If I'm going then I want to run in the moss of her irises one last time.

--Andria.

It's unfortunate that I have to distance myself from another friend because I might strangle them if I saw them.
Also it's rather triggering when people talk about it like it's a good thing, something to strive for. I've found there to be only one person I can do that with and this boy is not it. He's an idiot for wanting this.

My shell seems to be growing emptier. It echos when I speak.

--Andria

I never know how to comfort people.
They say you should tell others what you'd want people to tell you, but I don't know what I'd want people to tell me. I'd want people to distract me because I don't like talking. Other people like talking and I never know what to tell them besides the ever-repeated lie of "It's going to be ok".
I try and tell them good things but it's much harder when they're not there with you.

--Andria

It was better today because I was distracted.
But the minute I returned home, to my solitude -it all became so much worse. It's like a ringing in my ears in that it's constant and it's loud but no one else can hear it. Like I'm being suffocated.
There's a pillow being shoved further into my nose and into my mouth, and I can't scream and I can't breathe and I can't do anything.
I just endure it. I never die.

I told her far too much and I wasn't meant to do that.
She was concerned. So I told her what she wanted to know and that was that. I've caused so much unnecessary worry and I hate it. People shouldn't care like this -they don't care like this. Not really. They feel morally obliged to but I can see right through them.
I know what I need to say to get them to leave me alone.

People think they're so intelligent and able to know what I'm feeling but they're not. None of them are. They're easy to manipulate, they're easy to scare. All I need to do is glare at them, tell them to back off and they're gone and that's that. They don't ask anymore. Not like they used to.

Because they've realised it's not going to go away because they want it to. They can't tell me sweet things and expect that to solve my problems. People get frustrate, people get tired and people can't be bothered to stick around when things don't go their way.
And that's fine.
That's the way people are but they shouldn't pretend that I matter to them when they'd leave in a second when they realise they couldn't help.
Because people are pitiful. And people hate knowing that they can't save you.

I don't know how many nights like this I have left.
It's unbearable and I want to stop it.
I want to stop it soon.

I don't want to deal with life.
I don't want to deal with my mind.
I want to forget.

--Andria

a list of things that make me happy.

Cold mornings when I need to wrap the covers tight and bury my head beneath the surface.
Coffee in the afternoons.
The way the grass is after it rains and how it crunches underneath my feet. It breaks away with ease. It's beautiful, being destroyed.
Gray skies and fog because I like the world better in a monotone. Colours are overrated -like the sunshine or the heat.
Oversized and sleeved shirts that I can tug down to cover every inch of me. The ones that I can burrow into. The ones that feel safe, contained.
Pastel colours, they're undefined and vague. ((like my soul 0.o))
Hardcover books. They look brilliant stacked next to eachother.
Second hand novels have so much history behind them. Well, in the sense that I like the idea of books being passed around through the years, kept pristine and mint.
The smell of peppermint after a shower.
Pale skin after it's been washed.
Drawings that are left as sketches. They are so rough, emotional. They don't need to be covered and perfected.
The way her eyes look when she laughs and you can see the green-blue-white well when her cheeks are flushed.
Her smile. It's everything. 

--Andria

Sometimes I get these moments when I'm alone -everything gets so intense. The world seems to spin slower and the air is still. My heart begins to beat a million miles a second and I can feel everything. I can feel it on my skin and in my hair and behind my eyes. In my mouth, in my lungs, through  my veins. It hurts a kind of blunt pain that makes me feel sick.
I can't move or think I can only exist in a never ending kind of way that feels infinite. I get so tired, and at the same time I get so scared. I'm afraid to sleep, afraid to shut my eyes because of what I'm going to think. And yet, I'm afraid to be awake because of that reason also, and of what my thoughts will make me do.
It's getting worse, everyday. The other night was just the beginning and I can only imagine what I would have done if the scissors hadn't been blunt.
I can feel it coming on all the time, like I'm a second away from breaking. People don't understand how close I am and that hurts. Like people don't think I'll do something, like I'm not serious. And not in a good way, they think I'm putting it on.
Why would anyone fake this feeling? It's not fun.
It's fucking terrifying.
Being scared of yourself, having something beneath yourself that calls the shots -it's not desirable. Is this what people believe I'm doing? Making it up?
Bullshit.
I don't want to be alone, but I don't want the intimacy of another person. I don't like people holding me or touching me or pretending they care.
And that's contradictory, I know. But I can't help it.
It doesn't know what it wants.

--Andria

It's the morning after and it feels like I'm hungover. Feeling so much at once for a long amount of time does this to me. It doesn't feel real, like it was a dream or something. Maybe I can pretend it was because I have no marks to show for it.
I'm just glad she was up. I feel bad, because I kept her awake into the early hours of the morning and I feel selfish because mostly I don't care.
I really, really needed it.
I'm sinking, ok. Like there's stones in my pockets and I'm sinking.

--Andria

I don't think I can coherently type about what happened because I can't believe what happened. I can't believe I did what I did. I never thought I'd actually attempt it. I don't like it and I feel sick. I feel sad above all.

--Andria

I wish I was Cas.
I wish I had James as my friend and I wish I could watch Gray everyday and I wish I could smile with my brother Luke and I wish and I wish and I wish.
Maybe Cas is just that, my wish. Cas is who I wish I was. Cas is beautiful and Cas is kind and Cas is intelligent. Cas will be successful. Cas will end up with Gray.
Cas is not sad, not truly.
Cas is the everyday kind of sad where you stare off into the distance and stay up too late at night. But Cas is always better in the end.
I won't be better, in the end.
My end will not be a long time in the future. My end will be bloody and loud. My end will be in pain.
I will make sure that Cas has a good end, in the arms of someone who truly cares about her. Even though she may not get Gray for too long -Cas will be alright.
Because that's what Cas deserves.

--Andria

an update.

I still don't know where anything is headed. I don't know what I'm doing, with anything or anyone -with life. I don't know what I'm meant to do or say or think. I don't know how to act anymore. I've reached a point of purgatory and I'm just floating. I don't know if I'm meant to care. My energy has drained entirely and I'm finished. I've nothing left. Nothing at all. I don't even have enough in me to hide it. It's out, in the open for everyone to see and I don't care.

And like I said, I'm floating. In the middle. Like I'm just below the surface of the ice cold recess. I can't breathe and I can't think and I'm not fighting it anymore. I don't want to break out into the air and I don't want to sink further. But, I know that if I do I won't try and stop it. I'm so tired.
I can't try and stop it.

It's been worse this past week than it has for the past 106 days before. I don't know why. I thought that, maybe it was the realisation that I had nothing just for me any longer. For people knew and I always told myself that people were not meant to know, ever. But they do, so what do I have? I have a shit recovery and a few friends who try their hardest for a cause that has been lost. I have a need to be wanted and appreciated and cared for, but something that smothers that into a fear of being wanted and appreciated and cared for. I have an overwhelming anchor pulling me further down into suffocation and an urge to end it all. And that urge has not ceased for a week now.

I am scared to be alone for the first time. I'm scared of what I'll do, I'm scared of what I'll think.

I remember a time when I never had these thoughts. I had the others, perhaps I've always had the others but I didn't have these.
Then, after that dream with the little horizontal cuts on both my wrists... they commenced.

Things were ok for a while. But they're not now and anyone who might even be remotely prepared to listen to my endless and repetitive complaints and pains either has their own problems or isn't really in it.
And that's all I want, to trust someone completely. But I don't.

I don't even trust myself anymore.

She says I can take care of myself. But all I want to tell her right now, is that I don't think I can.

--Andria