The power of words

My beloved William Blake tattoo that I got a few years ago. It gives me inspiration even on the toughest days and when I look at it I am reminded why I must continue writing. It holds a lot of meaning to me and I couldn’t be without it.
Ps: Ignore the ugly bruise on my arm. I just had my blood drawn.

15 years and counting

My name is Isobelle, I’m 24 and I’ve been self injuring for 15 years.

I’m sitting here, thinking about the years that have gone by. Watching flowers blossom and leaves falling to the ground. Witnessing all the life around me, while I feel dead inside. So dead that I have to reassure myself that I still feel. That my heart is still beating and my head is still active. Cutting through flesh, gaining nothing but scars. Beating my limbs until they are numb, cold and blue. I’m starting to give up finding the escape I have been searching for so long.

I was nine. A little kid that didn’t have the chance to experience childhood. Young, naive and foolish. Scared, lonely and desperate. No one saw me. No one cared. I felt completely alone in the world. I had no one beside me. No one to give me hope or reassuring words. No one to tell me that everything would be ok. My friends left me one by one and my teachers told me I was nothing. They called me a liar, laughed at me and constantly told me I couldn’t become anything. I don’t know what I did to deserve being bullied by faces of authority. When they bullied, the kids in school followed. They were adults, I was a scared little girl with nothing to cling on to. They pushed me down into the gravel and smudged my face full of mud, and stood laughing while I cried. And I blamed myself. I still do.

I constantly feel like that little nine year old, to afraid to step into the light. Hiding in the bathroom, crying and bleeding while the world continues to go round. Forgotten by the souls on the outside and to numb to feel anything but the cold inside my bruised body. I cannot see the light from where I’m standing. The tunnel is to dark for me to see anything other than this despair. I pray to God that this demon doesn’t kill me before I have a chance to feel happiness from something other than self destruction.
I’m scared to death.

3 months come and gone

Back home after 3 months
It’s strange being back from the institution and I’m having a hard time getting used to it. I’ve been home for six days now but it feels like an eternity. Everything is terrifying, depressing and hard out here in reality and I feel lost and alone. Currently considering getting myself admitted again, because I need help. I cannot help myself anymore

The 3B ward

Beautiful summer day II

Beautiful summer day

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The path we lightly thread

Under the bridge

Bridge