I’ve deleted a lot of things lately, which then reminds me of how I’m still not fully mentally settled. These reminders are like the echoes of my last bad episode, telling me how I tried deleting myself from the Internet. They’re like wounds that I won’t stop picking at. Just, there’s no satisfaction at seeing the blood flow.
Over the past couple of years, I’d written almost 800 posts. Even if I averaged 200 words a post, that’s 160,000 words. That’s about three novels. Three novels of…completely random stuff. Religion. Mental illness. Politics. Fiction. Other random crap. And now it’s gone forever, like it was never there. The worst thing is that I feel exhilarated and sad that I can do that. It might be the closest I’ll ever get to chopping off a limb and watching it regrow.
I deleted a lot of ways I kept in touch with people. That’s what hurts the most. A little voice inside says I can’t stop talking to people and expect them to know that I give a shit. Since they can’t know that, it shouldn’t get reciprocated. At that point, I feel needy. Being needy is weakness. It’s a disappointment.
It’s something to be cut out without mercy.
Although I know why I delete things – myself, people in my life, things I’ve done – it still doesn’t stop me from doing it. One day, I’ll even delete this. Not just because I want to silence myself when I’m out of my mind. I’ll do it because it’s what I’ll tell myself I deserve.
So many times I’ve fought with myself. I just feel so weary. I don’t want to delete anything in my life, but I want to delete everything and stop fighting.