Нихуху, я ещё живая
Резкий травмадамп накопившиеся больше чем за 15 лет
английский текст был изначально для челиков из диса :В
I’ve always had close friends — not many, but we've always been on the same page. I’ve always loved being the one they could rely on, their support, the person they could cry to. But somehow, every time their lives started to improve, they slowly drifted away from mine. The reasons were always different, but the outcome was the same. I tried to keep in touch but in the end, I was left ignored.
I sincerely showed my love in this way—I felt their pain, wished for them a better life, because I’ve always believed that everyone deserves someone with whom they can be vulnerable and simply themselves. But I never wanted to be just a guide or a therapist to them. I wanted to be vulnerable with them too.
Over the years, this pattern kept repeating. I carried their secrets, but also the growing fear that I was being used — that when I needed someone, no one would be there for me. I bottled up these feelings, knowing they weren’t wanted, not even by my parents. Eventually, the emotional pain became so overwhelming that I turned it into something physical. I started self-harming — using a box cutter to make little cuts, mostly on my thighs. The sharp, burning pain from those shallow wounds somehow helped distract me from the constant ache in my chest and the lump in my throat that never seemed to go away.
With time, and thanks to some truly good friends, I began to learn how to trust again. But the paranoia never fully left. It still lingers. And when things get really bad, I sometimes feel that familiar tension in my hands — the urge to hurt myself just to feel some kind of release
