Paranoia and moments of panic.

I keep having these thoughts of deleting everything and running away from it. Not just here, but everywhere. Like maybe if I cut of the last few veins I’ll finish bleeding to death and it will all be over. I feel like this stupid blog and my shitty attempts at writing are basically the last things I have left to really obsess over. They kind of keep me going in a way.

There is a secret part of me that wants to be remembered, but I know how ridiculous that is, how pointless. I don’t even like people, so what purpose is there in being remembered by them? They have no respect for me, and I have even less for them. I think that there are human pieces beneath this monster, and those are what make me so fucking uncertain all of the time.

I have these times too, where I freak out. I keep imagining that someone is going to figure out who this blog belongs to, one of those long lost people. I admit I haven’t been the best at covering my tracks. There are connections everywhere, and to me that is frightening. It sounds unfounded, but if you lived my life…it is full of so-called ‘impossible’ things happening. Everyone says, ‘oh, don’t worry about it, things will work out’, yet for some disgusting, unfathomable reason, they rarely do. Sounds like a perspective thing, but trust me, it isn’t. Even my optimistic mother admits that as a family we are on the verge of being cursed.

It’s as though the world has something against each of us. Around every turn seems to be a bottomless pit, so I’ve learned, as a tool of survival, to expect it to be there. Now I look like a pessimist, when in fact I’m just a psychotic realist who knows that the chances of things going right are only increased if I take to pounding the world into submission with my fist. Otherwise, nothing works out. I have to want it, just like the stupid driving license. If I don’t keep vigilant, like a sandcastle, it just falls apart. It has me high-strung, nearly throwing off my own sanity.

I keep thinking I’m going to die and/or kill myself, and this stupid eyesore of a blog is still going to be here. Along with everything else. Wouldn’t that be wonderful, the world finding out all my dirty little secrets? That underneath this exterior of ‘perfect’ is nothing but a sniveling, cowering misanthrope that wants to slink away and die of unnatural causes?

The panic was yesterday. Finally I calmed myself down enough to lay down, where I forced myself into a deep sleep. I had dark dreams in dreary rooms in filthy houses that I’d much rather forget. There are nightmares wherever I go, both awake and asleep. And I know, somewhere inside this stubborn person, that I have no one to blame but myself. I am the cause of all of this. I am alive, and so it must be. Both consciously and subconsciously, I hate myself. And every damn chance I get, I keep telling myself that, beating it into my head. I am the cause of every problem, of every flaw. It is me who makes this unliveable.

The heartless are always cold.

There’s something about being trapped inside a house that is both damaging on the brain yet at the same time, something that builds character. There’s a lot of snow. Enough that I won’t be leaving the house anytime soon. Normally, I’m one to absolutely content being indoors, but like all animals, I like to ‘prowl’ so to speak. Wander out into the woods with the option of never returning. The one thing about bad weather is that it also prevents other people from leaving the house, namely the people you live with.

I had one of those incredibly lonely days yesterday, the kind where I feel so hopeless and alone that it actually penetrates my numb barrier and physically hurts. I love being alone; I live for it. But every once in awhile I have one or two of those ‘days’, the irritating, human kind. It makes the monster in me snarl, and it causes me to crawl even further back into this black hole of nothingness. Those are always the worst days, because it makes me vulnerable, suddenly. The smallest criticism and I am on the verge of cracking, because what little confidence I had goes flying out the door without a backward glance, leaving me to fend off attacks with absoultely nothing. Needless to say, that is when it cuts the deepest.

My one companion my damn cat, he might be sick. He’s lost a few pounds (which I know is a hell of a lot for a cat), and is literally starting to get skinny, which is quite an accomplishment. I keep getting paranoid and hoping it isn’t a tumor or something. But he’s old too, (about 10), so maybe he is just slowing down a bit. He has been a lot pickier about food, so I’m thinking too that he might have lost some weight because he wasn’t eating what I was giving him (it’s hard to tell; other cat gobbles up the rest). I changed the food, and now he’s meowing and complaining less. I’m not going to jump to too many conclusions; I will just wait it out and see.

My mom is on memory medication. Her short term memory has declined lately, worse than it was before. She’s forgetting things one minute to the next, and I’m having to constantly remind her of things. Even when I do, she often still forgets. It could be from her head injury from before, or it could be something else (her grandmother had Alzheimer’s). They don’t know, and we can afford to go and have her checked out anyway. And the pills aren’t working so far, which is disappointing.

I’m very cold about it all, to the point that I’m sickened with myself. I should feel bad for her, but I don’t…I just feel…nothing. I want to be there to help, because she gets frustrated a lot with all of her problems (her hands don’t function well, and she often gets quite mad about it, along with many other side effects of her injury). But when the time comes, I stand there for a second then just walk away, like a wall of ice. I freeze up in a mental sense, feeling irritated with her for being irritated. Sometimes I even get mad, and just say something insensitive, without remorse (something along the lines of ’so? get used to it’, or ‘don’t get angry’). I don’t even feel it now, thinking about it, though I know I should.

I’m cutting myself off, more and more. Half the time, I don’t even know it is happening. My parents want to go visit my godparents around Christmas to see them and everything, yet all I can think is ‘can I stay home?’. My godparents are pretty good with me; I know they care. But for me, I just can’t extend the feelings required. It’s so fucking difficult that I can’t explain it. It’s there for my parents because I’ve been with them so long (and that, as you can tell from this entry, is limited in and of itself), but with everyone else I can’t feel shit. I can’t even care. I know that sounds impossible, but honestly, it’s almost like trying not to be mad at someone who royally fucked you over and made it blatantly clear that they don’t care that they did it. It’s just too damn strong to fight much against. There is just numb, and it doesn’t want to be shifted, so I can’t shift it.

I’m cold on the inside, apparently.

Perfectionist, or realist?

I grow tired of my own self doubt. It never really goes away. I can have plenty of people tell me something is ‘good’, yet it’s always my own opinion that wins out in the end.

I HATE my writing. Literally, I fucking loathe it. It disgusts me, makes me cringe, and when I read over it I have to sit back and ask myself, ‘why do you even try?’. It’s negativity, sure, but the fact is, I read over it and don’t like it, period. Obviously, if I ever want to do anything with my writing I have to be somewhat confident about it, be prepared to be rejected. But I’m not. I keep trying to go over things, to improve it, yet I feel like no matter what I do, the vision in my head is about a million times superior to what I get down on paper.

There is no winning in this situation. I even try to expand my vocabulary, try to attempt different styles, yet nothing works. I hate it, am still hating it, and it’s goddamned irritating.

I think what makes me angry is that I feel as though everything I work at is a failure. It’s nothing, it means nothing, because I am nothing. No one cares, obviously. And honestly, I wish I could just stop caring about it, but for some reason I want to feel like there is at least something I can do competently. I mean, fuck, what can I do? Nothing. There isn’t anything that I can just look at and go, ‘yeah, I’m pretty good at that’. I guess it could be perfectionism, maybe I’m asking too much. Maybe I ask too much of everything, like wanting to having an hour a day where I don’t want to die. Maybe that’s too much. I can’t tell anymore. It’s sounds sarcastic, but it isn’t. Seriously, I mean it.

I’m just tired, worn down. Just breathing is wasting me away. And all I do is whine, haha. What’s hilarious, is I don’t even want people to pity me, I don’t want to pity me, I just want a fucking goddamned solution. I want to search and find an answer, instead of just more and more questions.

Tired.

I’m disgusted. More than I can say. I recently heard about a former friend of mine, one who I will say was probably one of the most useless people I have ever met in my entire life. Very much a follower, never thought for herself. She graduated early, has a job, lives with someone, is supposedly going to go to college. It’s as though everything I do is crushed by the world. If someone like that can exist on their own, what does that say about me? I can’t even secure a job. They won’t even hire me at a fucking petstore because I don’t have enough experience.

What about life? What does that mean to anyone? What do years of depression and self loathing equal? Apparently nothing. Nothing but more of a willingness to see myself fall. I stand back cheering on my own defeat, because I know in the end, that is the only cure for any of this.

I don’t want happiness or security. I want to die. And fuck, I want the willpower to follow all the way through with it.

Sometimes I forget I’m alive.

It seems as though this life never stops. It goes and goes, and I seem to be just drifting along, half-conscious and all numb. It has been too long already. I can’t help but wonder how anyone willingly lives passed 20. There was too much here to begin with; I want no more of this place, this existence.

I want to be my own person—I want to separate from this weak pathetic thing that is so inextricably attached to me. This person, I want her dead. I want to forget all of the things that go through her mind and settle in this darkness, oblivious to everything but myself, to this…painless suffering. That is what it is too, painless…so numb it doesn’t hurt, yet somewhere, somehow, I know it should….

I am lost in the bleakness, lost in the spaces between the hours that mean nothing. It stretches on and on, too damn fucking much, too damn fucking long. I write and write, with nothing else, no other meaning. I don’t care, only frown, wondering why I am not angry, why I do not fight my own degeneration into nothingness….

I don’t want help. What I want is for no one to care. I want my parents to give up on me so that I can just fade into the darkness and die away without feeling as though I am more of a waste than I already am. Half the time I don’t even care what they think, which is the saddest part. I should, yet sometimes I can’t.

I just want an end, I want it to be laid out in front of me and given so that it can just be done, so that there will be no disputing. I want all of those brief seconds where I think that things could be okay to abandon me so that I can make the choice, my last one. My final one.

People are just a waste of time.

It’s the holidays. They’re getting to me. I feel like the damn grinch, but then again, perhaps that is good on my ego. I think everyone could use a bit more hating in their lives; it is soothing on the soul, or at least, the darker ones. Hating reminds me off all the pros that are stacked up with suicide, like the fact that I will never again have to face the world, or pretend that I give a flying fuck about anyone but myself.

I love nothing. I can’t love. Whatever that feeling is, I can’t feel even a semblance of it; it is a mere fantasy in my opinion, created by the same morons who decided that caging up the human populace in one small, confined area was the greatest idea. The same morons who think Christmas is more than just presents, or that you can’t live without someone beside you. Or that the point of life is fucking and spawning so that all your putrid genetics can get recycled in the disgusting gene pool of human filth.

I love nothing. Call it pessimism, negativity. Ha. I laugh in the face of your human ideals, the ones that hold no truth, just biases. And we all know, secretly, deep down, that it is all lies. Filthy fucking lies used to perpetuate a meaningless cycle. Keep you contained, keep you placid….

There is one law that negates all others: OBEY.

I’m supposed to like this, I’m supposed to want someone to share my life with, I’m supposed to want to do all the things that these fucking idiots find enjoyment in, when to me it is all just futility. You’re going to die. We all are. You can get new friends every five seconds, along with new husbands and wives, and it isn’t going to make a shit bit of fucking difference. We’re all rotting, dying, decaying, right now, this very second, and there’s not a damn thing anyone can do to prevent it.

It’s beautiful. It’s so fucking sickeningly beautiful.

All in vain...