illegible illegible

i've changed a lot but not for the better

HOLLOWHOLLOWHOLLOWHOLLOW

all scratched up and thrown askew

Overdose on antidepressants, suppressants, represents, keep it back let it fester
Heretic's fork heretics fork heretic's fork drippin down my collarbone let it brew let it stew congeal and shatter

.

i dont feel like writing to be honest.  bvbgv   cbn
cant focus. cant think. cant cant cant
something smells like burning.
they know what they want

JOURNAl

I feel FUCJK
Because ZACH I S DRINKINBG AND DAD WANTS T O TURN OFF THE WIFI BC I WAS ST|UPID ENOUGHT NBOT TRO WEAR HEADPHONES WHEN IM TALKING TO MY FRIEND S AND ONE OF THEM THOUFHT IWAS TALLKING AVBOUT FICTIONAL CHARAXCTEWRS BUT IT WAS MY DAD AND THE GUY SAID "WHO THE FUYCK IS RICHARD MARKHAM" AND MY DAD WAS THERWE  AND HE GOT SO PISSED HE GOT SO PUSDED I WANNA DIUE AND ZACJH IS DRINKING AND I COULDNT HELP HIM I COULDNT HELP HIM AND NOW HES GONNA END UP LIKE ME
I am a # FUCJ
Because AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

Realization

I remember this comic i saw awhile back by this fucker named "erika moen". she's this transphobic douchelord who makes all these educational comics about sex and stuff. The comic i'm talking about wasnt about sex though.
it was about dying.
Here's a bit of it:


I'm talking about the top panel right now, because my edgelord self agrees with the lower sentiment.
But I recently (as in, 3 minutes ago) had a similar awakening.
except mine was the opposite.
I was sitting in my chair, staring blankly forward after a particularly exhausting day, studying my wilted lavender plant when I realized that I really didn't want to live anymore. granted, i never really had in the first place, but i've been going to therapy in an attempt to get it so the thought of death brought fear and not acceptance. And at this point, I really dont think that she can help me anymore.

Here's some factors that lead me to this conclusion:

• I've had a sudden spike in paranoia, to the point of feeling unsafe wherever I go, and having scissors on my body at all times as a means of defense. when i go to bed, i put drapes over all the windows and paper over those that dont have curtains, and sleep with my scissors on my bedstand, with a light on in the closet, because i know that something is out there, something that will lead me to a fate worse than death
• One of the main reasons i've been staying alive (or telling myself that i HAVE to stay alive) is because i had this crazy idea that my friends gave a single fuck about me. To be honest, at this point the only person in my friend group who i know for SURE cares about me is zach, but he's kind of obliged to because hes dating me. Even then, my mere existence is detrimental to his health, so i dont even have that. anyway, my friends have this lovely habit of ignoring me constantly and being put off by my enthusiasm. Not that i blame them, i'm a loud, obnoxious piece of retarded shit. hanging out with me is like trying to control an actualy fucking 5-year old. "I wanna talk about x-men!! oooh a butterfwy!! i wondah' what DIS rock tastes wike!! fuck!! ass!! shit!!! hehe bad words are fun"
• earlier this week, i relapsed into self harm. and i liked it. i did it over and over again because it felt good. christ, i cant even be left alone for 2 weeks without resorting to cutting myself like the little fucking pre-teen i am
• developed a new facet: Habit. i think this speaks for itself. my mental health is deteriorating more and more every day and medication costs money. isnt the fact that my parents tried so hard and spent so much to have me, only to get stuck with a fucking lump of shit enough of a burden??
• I really dont have a future. i'm not proficient at anything lucrative, so helloooo living at home, continuing to be a burden for the rest of my life. i have really no possible outcome in my future that doesnt end up with me homeless or dead. And besides, as dad always says, not matter what i do i'll end up shooting out babies anyway. my worth is tied to my genitals. 

anyway im gonna go cut myself now like the fucking retard i am lmao

I drew these

Why am I like this

Hurr durr im Michael hey do you have enough shitty fictional characters that you think you are?? yes??? well too bad have another one.

In other news, why do i feel like a ghost? like im not real. like im just remembering.
The moon's bright tonight.

Guro and boyf

Here's a fun fact: i fucking love gore.
not like hardcore gore. like. guro. art of blood and lacerations and guts spilling and all of that lovely jazz. I adore the concept of nosebleeds, cutting oneself open to reveal pink goop or golden ichor, or having pastel-tinted intestines splatter over the floor.
I love gore so much.
This is because I hate myself and i have unhealthy ways of coping.
a couple years back i started doing less than favorable things to my body. Whenever i did something wrong (ie: too loud, got a problem wrong, made a friend upset), i would get whatever sharp object was near me and drag it over my shoulders/thighs. This started out slow: twisted paper clips, thumbtacks, pencils. However, as the years went by, it got gradually worse. i would steal pencil sharpeners and take out the blades to use on my thighs.
after a while, the self-hatred that came from drawing my own blood turned to fascination. i remember a night a while ago when i had done something that i considered problematic, god only knows what it was. i had lain 4 gashes over my thighs: two per leg. I watched as blood beaded over the cuts, gradually filling them up to be lovely little ravines.
I remember wiping my hands on the wounds, and then staring at my fingers. Sticky and blood-soaked, contrasting the pale white of my skin. Ichor.
Some nights i did it out of boredom. because it was nice to look at. and i was proud of my scars, my gashes. They were beautiful to me, because I had spent too long thinking of myself as ugly. These were my atonements. my corrections.
they were my saviors.
after a few months, a thousand personal chats with friends, loss of trust from family, and what seems like a million therapist meetings later, i've been clean for quite some time.
but its never that easy, is it?
I still need my fix. i still need to see what im missing.
I run a guro blog. that's my fix. thats how i stop myself from mutilating everything on me: i draw it and look at pictures of it happening on tumblr.
Pathetic, right?
my boyfriend's not a fan of guro. he hates it. if something has a mention of "guro" or "gore" in it he gets pissed as hell at me.
i dont say anything. i try to atone for it.
i could never bring myself to explain why i love guro in the first place though.

Bottom lip

My bottom lip is fucked as hell.
It's chapped, first of all. Dry and scaley, like lizard skin. I bite pieces off and hope people don't notice that I'm bleeding from the mouth. They'll think I have an injury way worse than it actually is, like internal bleeding or something. No, I'm fine. I just have a picking habit.
Secondly, its scabby and ripped on the inside. My inner cheek is also guilty of this. There's this one particular spot on the left side that has a constant taste of blood and metal, and it hurts dully whenever I swallow. From the mirror, I can see it's white, as if there is a flap of skin that hasn't scabbed up there. But I can tell it's a crater, as I've felt with my tongue. To the right side of my lip, there's a torn, ripped section, sort of like a path of pricklebushes on a trail.
It really sucks. I like salty foods.

More on Wheatley (Disappointing Calculator full of Bad, Self-Destructive Ideas)

I tried really, really hard for Wheatley to at least be present  as I write these down. I mean, Cole showed up!!
Then again, I don't think Cole ever leaves.
Wheatley is a. Well he's an idiot. That's his sole purpose. And boy does he have some very harsh feelings on that front.

Facts about Wheatley

• Has. Two forms??? I think???
• Wheatley's pleasant (Core) form: Overexcitable, self-obsessed little nitwit. He has very few overtly positive qualities, but hey, at least he isn't the worst he could be!!
• Wheatley's regular (Chassis) form: The worst he could possibly be. This is the primary form he is in.
• Wheatley has approx. 3 emotions: Self loathing/pity over the fact of having no purpose besides being a dumbass. Rage over the fact that when he did actually make something of his life, he ended up destroying everyone he loved. Embarrassment over constantly blathering on and on about things that are pointless.
• Core Wheatley will talk about himself for hours if not interrupted. Things he likes, weird facts about himself, anything to compensate for the fact that he has the cleverness of a drunken squirrel.
• Chassis Wheatley is his own entity. All the other things in my weird head are a part of me that become 'Real' sometimes. But Chassis? He's constantly himself. 
• He's the voice in the back of my head, taunting me, berating Core for going on and on, telling me to hurt myself and/or others around me, and then to isolate myself because he put those ideas in my head.
• If Chassis ever takes over then please. Please kill me tbh
• Core is extremely passionate and creative, i guess. I needed something positive in here.
• Core thinking is like trying to parkour in an M. C. Escher painting

More on Cole

I wish I could get him to front to write this. He doesn't want to be in charge right now, but he's there, right behind my eyelids, with the others.
He feels not cold, not like ice. But he is freezing. More like time than snow.
Maybe he wrote that. I don't know. I don't know how my brain works. Or if it's even MY brain.

Facts about Cole:

• Don't touch Cole unless he touches you first. If you touch Cole and he isn't ready, it burns. Lightning strikes from your hands and slams into his skin- my skin- like tiny daggers. Talking hurts too. Too loud, too soft, jaws clicking and mouths whistling like a cacophony. It feels like my insides are screaming.
• He really likes hands. I don't understand this. When he's real enough to think and I let him take control, he looks at his-my- hands. Notes every wrinkle, every freckle, every scar and mangled cuticle. Sometimes he traces hands over veins and lines in palms. 
• Cole's presence is numb. His- my- eyes feel like they're made of mist, smoke, gas floating around in empty sockets, like a limb that's fallen asleep. 
• Sometimes he draws. He wants to draw realistically, but he's not very good. He does try, though.
• Cole likes chiptune.
• Rabbits
• When I'm disassociating, Cole automatically takes the wheel, and sometimes he gets stuck for a bit. It's usually a few seconds. He acts like I normally do, or at least, he really tries to. He doesn't want to cause worry.
• Cole cannot comprehend friendship sometimes. He understands it yet, but he doesn't get people enjoying his company, although he enjoys theirs. It's because he's not used to being put first. He's not sure if he likes it or not.
• Cole rarely takes full control because at one point he was in full control for about a week. This put quite a strain on him, to the point that he almost faded into a being of bad feelings and despair, kind of like what happened with Wheatley. He recovered, though.
  

This is all I have for now. 

Journaling

So I was told that if I wanted to hate myself less I had to write about my feelings.
I mean. I guess?? Sure. Whatever.
I've tried like. A billion times to have like a diary or journal or whatever, but it's never really worked out. It's usually because I figured that if I couldn't keep up with it, it wasn't a reputable enough source, and didn't perfectly outline my life at the time of writing it.
But you know. Fuck it, right?
So I guess I. Introduce???? Myself??
Like what is the point. No one is going to see this, besides my therapist. Probably.
But hey maybe someone on Tumblr will give a shit and ask to see my "Super Cool Secret Blog". Or probably I'll force it on Zach and Jaime because without attention I will Die.
Alright. Here goes.

My name is Michael and I think I'm real?? I mean, like. I probably am. I'm a sophmore in high school, and I live in the middle of Buttfuck Nowhere, New Hampshire. I'm so deep into the woods that it's a normal occurrence to see a deer in the backyard. Or multiple deer. Yesterday, Dad says he saw a whole flock!!
Herd. It's herd.
I suppose I should mention now that I have little to no self-esteem and a fucked up brain. I have this sort of matyr complex, where I always put others before myself. Even when I'm alone.
That usually ends with putting myself down instead of bringing others up, because there isn't anyone to bring up.
Think of it as Cole from Dragon Age. I don't matter. Helping others matters.

Incidentally, I also am Cole from Dragon Age. And many others. But I'll get into that some other time.