Confessionals, personals, digital diary entrys
Whatever you may call them, that's what these entries are. A collection of my thoughts and feelings written out for all the web to read. Warning for general life stuff, bad writing and everything else.
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Internet stress
CW: references to vomit, emotional selfharm
January 30th 2025
I'm sick. I feel sick. I feel so fucking sick when I interact with fandom sometimes. I threw up when I saw fanart of my favourite male character with his wife. I threw up when I saw someone selfshipping with my favourite character. I threw up when someone tried to tell me my brunette favourite character was actually blond. I threw up when someone told me I shouldn't publish my smutty fanfic if I'm underaged. I feel physically ill and I puke, I puke so much--- it's a symptom of my unmedicated anxiety. I know I'm mentally ill, you don't have to tell me. I don't block people online if they don't personally attack me, it's just not who I am. I've heard it's called 'digital selfharm' and honestly I'd agree with that. I've been on the internet my entire life, I was born on the web. When I was 13 and 14 I'd go on 4chan and gore sites just seeking out something to hurt me emotionally. Now, I refuse to block people on tumblr.com because even if I feel sick from what they post, I feel rude blocking them when they're honestly just doing their own thing. I seek ways to hurt myself even if they're not physical. I don't want to be hated. I want the fandom to love me, I want to be a god amongst men and when I get block I feel like I've been tossed out onto the street. I feel sick but I love this place. I want it to be the way it is in my head. I want this fandom to be bigger and I want to be loved, I want friends, I want people to talk to me. I'm too socially anxious to seek them out myself.
Never enough, never enough
January 19th 2025
My work feels like it's never enough. I draw constantly, but it never feels good enough. My inability to get whatever is in my head onto the page or screen really pisses me off. My art isn't good and I hate it. I love drawing but it never turns out good enough. I feel horrible when I look back on something I drew maybe a week ago. When i post my art online I feel like I'm just ruining the fandoms tags, as if the people in my fandom don't want my art even if there's nearly no one there. I feel the need to be the best, draw the best, feed my small fandom and just be amazing at art no matter what. But I can't. I feel horrible. I wanna stop drawing, but it's fun to me. That should be all that matters, but no, I still feel awful about not being perfect at drawing. I need to get better. I need to spend every waking hour drawing. I can't live like this, as some shitty fanartist. I wanna be as good as those who came and went before me. I wish I could've just been born as one of the greats instead of having to spend my entire life working to get even somewhat good. I'm too selfaware for my own good.
Untitled
CW: suicide, selfharm
December 22nd 2024
They say suicide is a selfish thing. I don't get it, I really dont understand. Why would taking you own life be more selfish than wanting someone to exist just for your sake? Maybe I just don't understand, maybe I'm one of those selfish people who dare wish for an escape from all of this. I really don't know what I'm going to do with my life. I feel sick every day. I can't remember a single day in the past 5 years where I haven't felt sick from sadness. My future feels nonexistent yet I know it'll happen. I can't keep doing this, I can't keep existing for the sake of existing. I'm holding off from any act of self mutilation at least until after christmas, I'm staying clean so I dont have to be told the same speech about how I'm beautiful and that I shouldn't damage my body because one day someone will want it. God I always feel so digusted, with both the world and myself. I hate how I look, it's all wrong. No one will listen to me, no one wants to respect me enough to at the very least call me by a different name. Is it also selfish to hurt yourself? I really can't help the way it feels to hold a blade to my own skin and press down to make shallow, superficial cuts. I'm fine. I don't think it's bad to hurt yourself and the people who cry about how awful it is have never felt a mental torment so strong the only way to express it is physically. Sometimes I close my eyes and try to imagine life after death. Heaven and hell aren't real and the kooks who genuienly believe are insane. I picture a void, a dark void, one without pain nor pleasure. A true nothingness where not even one's subconcious exists. True freedom is the type of nonexistence one feels when asleep. I can't fucking wait to leave.
Blood is thicker than water, yet feels the same
CW: blood, selfharm
December 11th 2024
I used to love the feeling of water running down my body. The way the dropplets rolled down my legs and arms leaving me with a tingling feeling was oh so nice. I used to be able to sit in the shower and watch them for hours. Now it feels like blood, warm blood dripping out from under my flesh, dripping from my upper arms, chest and thighs. If I close my eyes I start to panic, the recent memories come back. I glide my fingers over the days old scaars on my neck, their raised surface corse. A small jolt of pain radiates as I do so. It's comforting, the way my soft fingers feel against the still tender flesh. I always regret it yet I keep coming back for more. It's funny really, the way I yearn and ache for it in the moment, yet meer hours after I regret it so much that it pushes me to want to do it again, to drown it all out. I open my eyes, my mind fresh with the memory of watching blood roll down my upper body. I trace my hand across my left shoulder and down my upper arm, feeling the thin bumps along the skin. The scars had healed over when I stopped last time, yet the white marks stayed, a constant reminder. I don't want this. I stare at the barely visible marking on my thighs, the incredibly light scars that my mother saw and treated my like a sick puppy for, patronised me in every way yet refused to help in any meaningful way. I look down at my chest, fresh yet older than the ones on the back of my neck. God how I hate that part of me, I hate it more than the cowardly part that tells me to make shallow cuts. If I wasn't such a pussy I would've cut it off, correct nature's mistake so to speak. I wish I could be free. I wish this wasn't the only way I could find some kind of peace in this world. I stand up, turn the water off and grab a towel. They won't hurt tomorrow. They'll fade by christmas and I won't have to hide my neck anymore.