To feel useful

That must be so wonderful.
To have some kind of talent, some skill, some use.
Some people can dance, others can sing, or paint, or do maths, or build things, or inspire people. Create pieces of art that will still change lives in years to come.

And then there's me. I play bass, although I'm pretty much hopeless. I do photography, but I'm no good. I write, but it goes pretty much unnoticed which I presume means I'm no good at that either. I'm academically an idiot, I have a long list of emotional problems, I spent my childhood alone because no matter what I did nobody liked me and I can't keep a romantic relationship going for longer than a week before it starts to become miserable.

I don't know. Sometimes I just feel like I was put on this earth to be laughed at. I have no real purpose. I'm just in everyone's way.
My brother got straight As throughout school and is at university. He's got his own place, fallen in love, found a degree he loves and is happy.
My friends, I know, are going to go on to become brilliant. Whether they're brilliant within a small circle of people or are known world-wide for their talents. They're going to be somebody.
And I'm going to be here, in this pit of despair. Alone, working a dead-end job because I'm not good enough to do anything else.

I'm tired.

I need you so much closer.

I'm just lonely, I guess.

It's you, it's all for you.

What I wouldn't give to feel some kind of emotion towards people. Romantic, intimate emotion.

I want to be able to lie with somebody, cuddle them, just be with them, and be completely comfortable with that. To not freak out or flinch away when they do something as simple as lightly tap my arm. I want to get that buzz of excitement and happiness at just hearing their name. I want to smile like an idiot until my cheeks when I think about them. I want butterflies at the sight of them. I want to sigh contently and lose myself in their eyes. I want to smile while kissing them. I want to fall asleep in their arms and not care about the physical contact or the intimacy. I want nights of passion. I want to play video games with them, eat takeaways and lounge about in our underwear and scruffs. I want to wake them up with a cup of tea and I want to paint with them. I want to lie in an open field with them and count the stars. I want to cry with them, laugh with them. I want to have an argument so explosive that for a moment, I'm tempted to walk away. But then they'll pull me into them and kiss me, and I'll remember everything I love about them.

But more than anything, I just want to feel wanted. I don't want somebody who would rather binge drink and do drugs instead of chilling with me. I don't want someone who forces me to do those things, or guilt-trip me for not wanting to have sex.

Is it so much to ask for someone who won't make me hate myself more than I already do?

You're just somebody I used to know.

I keep hearing songs that are so relevant to my relationship problems that it physically hurts to listen. I listen to the lyrics and find myself reminiscing, replaying arguments and bad moments in my head and wishing I'd done things differently. Wishing I'd confronted him before he left.

I have no way of contacting him. I don't know his new address, nor his phone number, and I can't contact him through any social networking sites. The only option I have is to do it through a friend of his, but that would involve this friend hearing very personal things about both me and him. I guess he would deserve it - he was happy for everyone to know my secrets. But I'm not like him. Our issues are between us, and no one else.

I just feel like I can't shake off this anger, this heartache and this sadness until I've confronted this, and I have no way of doing it.
I just don't know what to do.

Thinking of you.

Yes, you. The one who broke through my barriers. The one who earnt my trust enough to physically touch me without me panicking. You who took me to new places, who gave me new experiences, who gave me a new lease of life.

You who lied to me, lied about me, betrayed me, and broke my heart.

When our year-long relationship ended, permanently, I was devastated. As much as I knew it was the right thing to do, and as relieved as I felt, I was still devastated. I'd lost you, after everything. We hadn't made it through this new wave of lies. 

But after I got through that period of sadness, I became angry. Unbelievably, uncontrollably angry. I hated you so, so much. Your name made me shake with anger and I wanted nothing more than to scream and swear at you. But I got over that. I remembered our good times, and why we had to end it. 

I missed you, but it was okay. Because there was still the chance. I didn't want to take it, but we still had the choice to get back together. But then you left. You were sent to a different country, against your own free will. Our chance was snatched from us.
I was in pieces. I didn't know how to handle it, and every time I tried to mention it to somebody, I broke down crying. And you didn't even say goodbye. After everything, you just left without a word. The slut you slept with the day after we broke up got a farewell, but not me.
My mother suggested that you couldn't say goodbye. That it hurt too much to do so. It provided me with a little bit of comfort, I guess. But we both know that's not true, don't we? We both know you didn't say goodbye because you're a cruel, cold-hearted person.
I started to feel better about the whole thing, until I heard the things you'd been saying about me. The horrible, cruel, painful words. I'd been so good to you, yet I'd somehow become public enemy number one within your friendship group.
It turns out, when you explained to them why we broke up, you conveniently forgot all of the times you cheated, you lied and you betrayed my trust.

I believed I could trust you. My self-harm, my depression, my anxiety issues, my intimacy issues, my fear of physical contact. I trusted you to keep me safe, and to help me get through these. But you didn't care about those things. Which is why you laughed about self-harm, you ridiculed me for it. And you painted me as some frigid, insane bitch.

But what hurts more than anything is that I actually thought you loved me. Well, now I know you never did. Because you don't know the meaning of the word.
I won't forgive you again. You've had too many chances.

First step: Admitting you have a problem.

I've struggled with various forms of self-harm for seven years. I should have, if I had any shred of intelligence, realised I had a serious problem long ago. However, this hasn't been the case.

Sunday 1st April 2012. I was sat on my bed, crying hysterically and scraping my knuckles along the wall until they bled. It didn't help much - it didn't have the same effect as cutting. But it was good enough. I didn't have access to any sharp object, and it was killing me. I sat there, gasping for air and pulling at my hair, repeating "I need it, I need it, I need it, I need it" over and over again.

That was less than a week ago, and it's only now that I realise I'm well and truly addicted to it.

New kid on the block.

Hello.
I'm new to this, and if I'm honest I have no idea what I am doing.
But nevertheless, I can see myself using this often.

I am 18 years old, I write in my spare time and I enjoy watching psychological thrillers or horrors. (Donnie Darko being my favourite).

I apologise in advance, as I know many of the things I post on here will not be happy.