My body has it's act together and so do I. I'm stronger now, much more than when I first wrote here a year or so ago.
I can wake up hungry and go to bed the same way. I can fill myself up with black coffee and cigarettes and diet sodas and be fueled by it alone.
I hate what it does to me though. It makes me obsessive. It makes me careless. It fills me with some kind of sick pride when I notice the way my hip bones jab uncomfortably into my mattress.

I believe when it's all gone, when I can be the weight I haven't been since I was 10 years old, everything else will be gone too. And then I can finally live in peace, away from everyone and everything and I can make a home in my own heart and empty stomach and I will never be bothered again.

This is not for you and it never has been. Go vomit the lies you tell yourself to get by on someone else.

--Andria.

I've been letting myself fall and fall and fall. But I've realised there is no ground. There is no place I'm going to hit, and I won't bruise anymore.
I've just felt so often that things aren't real but the only thing that is, is me. And I'm covered in reality and my shirt stretches around it and I just need to be a dream.

I haven't been eating.

--Andria.

I think I've seen the real in everyone and sometimes that makes me sick. Is ignorance bliss? Is bliss even really bliss? Are we all just existing in this pool of unreality, trying to ignore what isn't even real? "Reality is when you stop believing in it and it's still there." But how does one just stop believing?
It takes years to build a triple story hotel building and one might think it's simple to just tear it all down. But in lies the rubble and the mess and the brick and the dust will never settle, not really, not ever. Blood will remain forever in the pavement cracks, drying and becoming like rust.

I have to take it a day at a time but the days are so long.

I never know what time is anymore.

Gosh.
Am I just going to dwell in this forever?
Probably.

--Andria.

And damn I need to stop caring so much about how I am or what I am or what anyone else believes I am I am nothing so far I need to become something at all I need to become something that I like and something that is nice enough for other people to like please that's all I want.

--Andria.

It's becoming a strange tradition that I wake up hungover. I drink too much and I know that but I don't care. I don't care because if it affects anyone I don't care. They are the people who only care when they want to because they want to seem "emotionally attached".
I need to stop tattooing myself. I think the ink is making me sick.
I want to peel my skin off. That's what I'm doing I suppose. I can't stop carving meaningless words into my skin. My body is so scarred.
Will that last forever? Will I ever be clean again?
My head hurts. I don't know where I am. I'm swimming.

--Andria.

Don't believe in anyone. Not your parents, not your friends and not yourself. Don't ever believe that things will work out, they don't. If things were to work out, nothing would ever die. We'd have to live shoulder to shoulder our entire lives. But things die, we die. One day I'm going to be lit on fire or buried beneath such heavy dirt I couldn't breathe even if I was able to.
Life won't help you. Life isn't good. Life isn't about the most beautiful things. You can convince yourself that if you read and if you drink coffee and if you romanticise painful things that life will reward you. You think that life will reward you with a person as cynical, and as much of a pretentious asshole as you are but life will not. Life will give you pain, pain you can't deal with and that's what life is about. It's about spending every day fighting with yourself. It's about being told you're weak because you can't carry a piano under one shoulder the minute you wake up. It's about losing your heart.
And you will. Despite what all those "ageless love" stories would have you believe, you will die with an empty chest and no hope. That's what life does, that's what people do. Don't give yourself up for anyone. Don't put anyone but yourself first.
Because in the end, all that will get you is a group of people who believe you can be pushed. These people will use you when they need to, because you will make them feel special and the minute you want to focus on yourself they will leave because it's "too hard".
They're lying. It's not "too hard", they're just not used to a friend with a backbone.
You will not be rewarded for being kindhearted. You will not be rewarded for loving someone so deeply you'd rather die than see them die.
You will be crushed, and spat on, and hit, and burned, and your bones will be kicked and stomped into powder until that love doesn't exist anymore. Until you're just a pile of ash who spent their entire lives thinking about a selfish twat who never wanted them.
Be a bitch.
Hurt people the way they hurt you. Don't sit quiet when you know you're worth more than all of them. Being alone is less painful, trust me on this.
You don't need people around just so you can pretend you have "friends". You don't need to look like people like you when they don't. Litter. Swear. Smoke. Drink. Be a bitter, bitter asshole. Yell as loudly as you can. Cause scenes.
If you've been fucked over, be the worst person you can be. Be so terrible that you act like nothing is wrong. Then pull the fucking mat out from all the people who screwed you.
That's what you have the right to do.
If the people you have cared about take it upon themselves to fuck you up, create some noise.
Be angry.
Be pissed off.
Be loud.
Don't ever take anything from people you tried your best to love.

--Andria.

I reached my peaking point. I was pushed so far under water and I'm being blamed for drowning.
Time in a mental ward is not fun, I would not recommend it.
I need a new face. New skin. A new mind.

In case you were wondering, it's gotten so much worse.
Like there is the cherry of a cigarette being pressed ever so slowly, and ever so constantly into the space between my rib cage.
The anger slices deeper, and my will and hope are dead.
I have nothing left.
If I ever said this before, I lied.
There is nothing for me in this existence anymore. I want nothingness, I need oblivion.
A conclusion.

--Andria.

I just want to sit
somewhere
on the edge of a cliff.
Not to jump, but
to just sit there
and breathe in
the waves
and
hear the birds soar.
I want to stay there
forever
just breathing
and listening,
just watching
and waiting,
just thinking
about diving.

I suppose after you've failed once, everything hurts that bit more. And you feel like a failure for not being able to complete the one thing you want to do.
Once you've failed three times consecutively, it's just upsetting. And I'm so tired and my eyes hurt and things aren't getting any better.
And I can't handle life and I didn't choose life.
And I could go on for hours about how it isn't fair but what would that change? Absolutely nothing. There isn't anything that will change this.

Save yourself, other people will survive. You mightn't.

--Andria.

My Apologies.

I'm sorry that I'm
so dull
and I'm sorry that
I'm tired
and I'm sorry that
I'm only fun
when there's a drink
(or three)
behind me.
I'm sorry that I'd
rather sleep
and I'm sorry that
I prefer books
and I'm sorry that
I sometimes can't
explain how it is
that I feel.
I'm sorry that
I mark my pain
and I'm sorry that
I can't stop
and I'm sorry that it
seems to hurt
not just me but
you too.
I'm sorry that I
can't write that well
and I'm sorry that
I won't give it up
because, if I'm
honest
(for once)
I'm not sorry at all that
I've written about
your eyes
a thousand times.

So, finally, I'm sorry
that
I adore you
and I'm sorry that
you mean so much
but most of all
I'm sorry that
you're the only one
that
I want to spend
all my life
beside.

--Andria.

It's Like Trying To Live Inside A Box

I've been drinking too much, trying to fill the emptiness that's been drilled inside me. I've been sleeping too much, trying to give my life some kind of release, some kind of break for the echo that rings where my soul once lay. I've been eating too much, because I have no self control and I really just want another reason to hate myself. I've been bleeding too much, because I need a way to get out the hatred that boils in my heart for the reflection that I see in the mirror and the voice that I hear in my head. I've been smoking too much because I enjoy destroying myself from the inside out.

I used to be passionate. I used to enjoy things. But now, all those things that used to fill me with purpose have been reduced to the same level as everything else. Dull and eventual and something that will, in some way, cause me to hate myself and the world even more.

Drying tears with an
old handkerchief
and drinking the third 
cup of coffee
from the same mug
without washing. 
Brushing dust
to the floor
and leaving caps off of
pens.
Wearing the same pair of jeans
for the sixth day
in a row,
not bothering with
an umbrella
when it's raining down buckets.

--Andria.

I  hoped to have the will to make a pact to do better this year, to be better this year. I was going to be stronger, I was going to work harder, I was going to think more and do more for myself. I was going to work on those little things called 'self esteem issues' and I was going to find more worth in myself. I was going to care less and I was going to cry less and I was going to trust less, invest more in myself than other people. I was going to be more out-going and daring and I was going to have the nerve to ask her out for coffee. A small part of me wanted all these things.
But I ruined it before the year even started, and now I'm worse off than ever.
Perhaps you, internet troller who probably stumbled upon this post by accident -perhaps you deserve an explanation.

I'd reached my 200 days. That would've been fine, if two days before hand I hadn't taken a sharp object to my skin and drawn blood for the first time.
It was reckless, but you must know I'd tried it before -with blunter objects that didn't quite produce the desired effect, but had gotten me through my breakdown. I'd honestly never ever dreamed I'd do this while I was away. I thought I was going to become more on this trip. I thought this trip was for me and I thought this was the chance I'd wanted to get away from everything and everyone.
Little did I know it was just the opening of the crevasse, the tip of the ice berg of what has been my worst turn yet. It was hell, and I was so so sad. And the 14th of December -my supposed 198 day celebration of my recovery from other control-originated, self-harm techniques and the 1st day I'd visibly hurt myself- was not the beginning of my self-inflicting pain.
For an entire week, every day and more than one instance I would dig my nail into the skin of my wrists and pray for blood. I wanted to strip the skin off of my bones because I hated everything about that place and I hated everything about myself. I don't know what had changed in me. Before going there, I would have dreamt of doing it but I never believed I ever would. I've seen it destroy too many people.
So, my 200 days was nothing to celebrate about. And the day after  I gave into that demon inside of me, the one that had always been there and the one that I'd fought to keep at bay for 201 whole days. I tried and I tried and I pushed that little piece of metal deeper into me, and things seemed to get better because I had control again.
Some days I imagined just giving in and pushing it all the way, and I wouldn't have to worry about the blood because it wouldn't matter. Because I would be dead and it would all be over.
I didn't and I haven't. But that doesn't mean I will, one day.
And so, now, that I am home and I can do things my way -I'm worse. I'm alone, but I'm so alone that I don't want to see anyone. I don't want them to see me and my failure. I'm so disgusting, and I deserve it so much.
I eat a meal a day, and I know it's too much. I know I have to be strong and cut it out all together but I give in and then I go deeper because I'm stupid. I'm running out of room on my wrist, and they really do look like train tracks.

I hope that you, precious reader, are ok. I hope you are fighting your demons.
Because you are worth that. You are worth happiness.

I want to count every freckle on her skin -I'd never get bored. I want to hear every story behind every scar on her body, and I want to write every one down so I never forget. I could write novels about the way her lips look when she smiles, and her eyes in the sunlight.
Forgive me for not being worthy of you. I know it, and I'm sorry.

--Andria.

Unfortunately, although I have been away for some time, I am no better.
No better at all, in fact.
I've gotten much worse, and I'm so weak and tired and my mind is so full of hate. The thoughts never stop, now. And now, I have the option of going deeper. Bleeding more. Through the vein and I could finish it.
I haven't, maybe I won't. I'm not sure anymore.
All I know is that nothing can save me now. I think I've reached the darkest of it.

--Andria.