I have BPD and a lot of other shit. But mostly a lot f feelings that don't feel validated so I'm sharing this that I wrote. It will be very triggering.

**Echoes Into the Void**

I could tell someone I planned to jump off the Brooklyn bridge on the 23rd of September at exactly 09:23 am because an artist’s death must have a poetic value—or even a would-be artist must find their value in death. And to live exactly 25 years only to die by suicide on a bridge all while having a crippling fear of heights would be both poetic and tragic. A fitting end.

I could tell a person something like that and only hear the words “that’s a lot of pressure to put on yourself” echo in my eardrums. My friends and I we laugh at things like that. Reality is absurd and nihilism is our favourite philosophy. When the world is on fire and our bills need to get paid, we starve ourselves. Or else, if our mind is too tired from rapid cycling between ignoring everything around us to hyper-fixating on why no one takes us seriously we might have no choice but to purge all that pain and release the absurdity as it escapes our body into our ever-reliable porcelain god. 

Is that a bit of blood? 

Doesn’t matter. I bleed more on a light day of my period than that shit and I’m fine. 

It’s all a bit absurd. And it’s definitely very comical. And my friends and I are all just one bad joke away from a mental breakdown anyway so who can take anything that seriously? And we don’t.  

“...But I know you’re going to continue being creative and make incredible art” This could potentially hurt. But it wouldn’t really be allowed to hurt. You’re supposed to feel better when someone says that they believe in you. And we already agreed that nothing really matters anyway. 

I might have said I had no will to live. But it wouldn’t have been the first time. And maybe a person would be tired of listening to my lust for death. Or else maybe a person wouldn’t know what to do with it all. And that could theoretically make a lonely person feel more lonely. You know, if I was a lonely person and if these things actually happened. But loneliness is absurd because I’m a strong girl and I always get through it always no matter what. 

So maybe I had three previous suicide attempts and was hospitalised twice. But who on this hell planet doesn’t want to die every once in a while, am I right? I mean, my friends and I joke about suicide. No, really. We actively joke about wanting to die. So how could I possibly expect a person to pay me a visit to check up on me or offer to help me with my laundry? It’s MY damn laundry. And how could I even accept the help that would be offered when I could tell someone I planned to jump off the Brooklyn bridge on the 23rd of September at exactly 09:23 am and at 09:24, I’d be dead.