Lines, words, letters. [10]

Nothing meaningful, unless for you it is.


Okay, that is done. Luckily I have these paper boxes everywhere. Good, the table is clean, the air is … well it stinks, I better open a window, give me sec.

Ah, fresh winter air. Now, there we go.

All she wanted was a peaceful life, a happy life, but for most of her actual life time she just wanted to die, to stop existing or just be normal, so she wouldn‘t think to much about everything, wouldn‘t feel so intense, just do what everyone does. And because the good life didn‘t seem possible, she just wanted to end up in a locked clinical institution. Her only dream, it seemed, despite the actual dream to be dead. Inside she still had other dreams, but she didn‘t really believe in them, they seemed impossible, they seemed foolish, not in range, not doable or even realistic, just dreams as they say.

And now all she needed to do, was just starting suicide attempts over and over again because otherwise she wouldn‘t be able to finally do it. She forced herself to think about drinking a bottle of cleaning substance, pouring everything in gasoline and just burn together with everything. Maybe just jumping down a bridge, I mean which suicidal person thinks about the people who will find them anyways, right? So why should she think about it. There would be some shocked people, some police officers, a doctor and paramedics maybe. Well, just usual business, right? Why should she care about them, they don‘t know her and if they may saw her or talked to her before, they still don‘t really knew her. In this way, she got ready to start. And well you know how it ended. Right?

She didn‘t die from her suicide attempt, they got the acids out of her stomach, just in time. It did damage her insides, but she survived. After she got stable again, the doctors decided to put her into a clinic for some time, just to get her up again and away from all problems.

The parents agreed and she, she just wasn‘t really there. All the pain killers and her own thoughts.

She just did what she got told, as far as possible for her. After she got out of the hospital, she got home to pack some stuff and then some days later, she got into a clinic. Just a normal clinic, with nice people, who really wanted to help her, make her feel good. But it was already too late, the damage was finite, not the physical damage, but her feelings seemed beyond repair.

After the first day she just screamed at other patients for no reason. She even pushed one of the care takers away. Leaving them with a hurting head because the push was so strong. The woman fell down on the floor, right on her head. After this incident, the doctors in the clinic decided to put her into another clinic, specialized for such cases. And so she got into the situation, we found her to be in. I guess this might be it.

„How much time do I have left? … 15 minutes, well. Okay I guess another page will do it.“

The story is almost over at this point. Only an extended short story I guess.

Not the usual story, but maybe I should have added some more realism to it.

Now it feels so fictional and over dramatic, as if it would just be a generic story, maybe it is.


„He… hello?“

stronger knocking

„Who is this?!“

door shaking

„Stop, you are breaking the door, just wait.“

???: „Did you forget about me?“

Pages 26 – 28 of Lines, words, letters.


“Ignorance is strength”, “ignorance is bliss” … But for whom?

So don’t forget that what is not in the comment section of the posts is in the book. This means, that everything is the author or someone else. For example when there is “the story is over”, this doesn’t mean it actually is. Just in the context of the current situation of the author inside the book.

(Weird book, I know. But hey, it gets weirder, yay.)

And in the context of my actual recovery and self-therapy the whole story actually is very confusing because it actually is still fictional, but you never know what is real and what is fiction. Maybe what you think actually happened, maybe it actually is the opposite of what you think. So maybe this part is true, maybe another part is true. How should you know, right? Well some maybe guess it right, but then, what is fiction after all. Is truth a fiction or fiction truth? (Like a teenager trying to be philosophical.)

When you got used to tell lies because this is what people want to hear, you feel like telling lies when you tell the truth. But now I try to escape this mess and I am making progress. And for me this means, I have to return to the person I was before it started, the little child. At least when it comes to emotions and my natural character: bright, open, interested in everyone and everything, happy for the most part. This combined with the experiences I gained over the strange time in between (most of my life), I can then become what I always knew I would be, in some way.

I mean when I was around 2-3 years old I knew I would want to speak to people and help them. I also was highly interested in music. I liked to do sports, knew what I could do or how I could do things. Later just felt good in nature, knew it was a safe place to escape, to play, to stay a while. Then I lost it all because I got broken by others and then by myself, the worst enemy wasn’t I, but it got me into thinking that it all was hopeless.

Now it is time to remember, I remembered. Now it is time to love, I love again. Now it is time to see, I see again. Now it is time to stay strong, I get stronger. Now it is time: “The time is now.”

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