A freaking big rant ((READ @ YOUR OWN RISK))

I can't even cry anymore, I'm getting bad again and this time I cannot be saved, nor do I fucking want to. Too much and too little are on my mind as I think back to New Years at Sjoerd's. Polaroids, champagne, bonfires and chatter are all so fucking distant, even thinking about the hugs and kisses shared on that faithful night are bittersweet. The only one in the group that I'm still fond of is Ben and I feel a hole in my soul that feels like it's falling away at the stitching that's holding me together. One day I'll unravel, but I feel that if I do so, I may end up somewhere I don't want to. Shaking and sobbing, silenced with no tears is embarrassing while I reconcile with the scared child I was. Too much can be explained looking in retrospect of my mental health and potential spectrum diagnoses, times like these I feel make me difficult to integrate into a healthy society. Nobody likes an outcast unless you're a greasy white boy in a Netflix series and I'm so tired of being a novelty. Nearly everyone has left me but I feel scared; like one day he will notice that I'm toxic, more harm than good or generally unwell in every sense of the word and he will decide that I'm not his soul mate after all. A year and a half has flown by, and I only hope we are built to last because I feel he's the quilter holding my fraying heart together, bringing new and bright fabrics into my life, but still, maybe he will leave like everyone does to me eventually. I need therapy but I don't want to end up in hospital over my mind and the shit I say now that I'm numb to every external being than him.
Physical pain is so much fucking easier, but cutting myself to ribbons would shatter him, so in that regard I will always think twice about it. It feels strange considering someone else in a situation like this; almost like a symbiosis because love is my executioner as of late. I'd die for him, I really would. Sleep is my enemy because it keeps slipping from my grasp no matter how much I need her, my Weary eyes are too sick of social media, myself and my family. Dunedin is terribly daunting, 3 fucking months and I won't be in my attic tomb, surrounded by the rat nests and drama queens anymore. Leaving high school was hard enough but before I know it, I'll be an adult. I still feel like a 14 year old depressed maniac who would do anything for a sleeping pill or sharpener blade. The letters to God were a nice escape but they were too taxing; writing letters which would only return to the sender. It was as obsolete as writing a mixtape for someone in 2022. I don't know, I don't know, I don't fucking know. I wish I wasn't broken, I wish I was fucking normal and I wish I didn't spend every cent of my savings on absolutely nothing at all. All I can do is imagine who I'd be if I went skiing in Italy every summer with my blonde hair and I-Phone and loving parents; if my biggest struggle in life was whether or not Papa would let me have a thousand dollars spending money. Beating my head against a brick wall right now would make me feel untouchable, and the blood down my face, in my mouth and eyes would feel like heaven compared to the grinding Dredge that I feel when I look at the disgusting figure across the sink.
I hate my phobias, they're too fucking normal but at the same time, why would I be important enough for a stalker? Paranoia is a fucking cunt and it is one of the fucking worst things about me, I need something to sleep or to smoke or anything to make me feel at peace for even a few hours because this is not a life and nobody has even taken my life yet. Yet. I want to be good and I want to be just and happy, but I'm slowly feeling my fight draining from me while I watch myself flounder in friendships and let downs and studylink applications. Nobody said this would be easy but they never said that I would be this fucking depressed. New adventures do await but the change, the differences, the new and the uncertain make me want to tear my skin off. Fucking hell, I nearly melted down today over a piece of toast getting stuck in the toaster because I didn't expect this outcome from it. Why can't I tell what's wrong with my brain, or people, or my family? Why is the concept of familial ties after leaving home such a foreign idea to me? Maybe I should've bled out 4 years ago. Maybe then I'd feel less like this, but at the same time, he wouldn't have met me, and I couldn't have been this (hopefully) permanent Manic Pixie Dream Girl force in his life. I need sometimes to comfortably look forward to, or else I might just perish.