Senseless

I’m really hating on myself right now. Another bad day I don’t want to think about. It really does seem to be getting worse, this workplace. I’ve decided that I don’t just dislike my boss, I hate her. I can deal with her, sure, but I constantly have the urge to be a real ass to her, which isn’t the greatest of ideas. I even cursed in front of her today, and couldn’t be brought to give a shit about it. She surprisingly made no comment. I think every other word out of my mouth is ‘fuck’, because every time I turn around something is going wrong or I do something clumsy that I end up having to clean. Interestingly, so is the same with everyone. We all cuss, we all get annoyed.

Today one person made a comment that it’s always livelier with me around. I thought it was funny considering what I’ve been doing on my breaks. We started singing the hokey pokey about an hour into my shift, quite obnoxiously, which made everyone cringe and laugh. It’s the only way to make it through these days. We all try to be nice and polite, because the rest of the time we’re either pissed off or irritated.

We’re always shorthanded because of the shitty scheduling the manager does. Even one of my shift managers gave me a bit of a look when she was talking about her and the hours she’s been giving people. That, and we’re always out of something and far too overstocked on other things. I’m just tired of it, already. How long has it been, even? It hasn’t been a month yet and I am already worn so thin. I came home today and just wanted to collapse in bed. I don’t want to talk to anyone, and everytime my parents ask me, ’how was work?’, I want to scream. You can ask me a few hours after I’ve been home, but not right when I come in the fucking door. Tomorrow will be my first day off after six days of working. Then I go back to work again for a few more before I get another day off. It’s not that bad, I realize, but I’m kind of going a little crazy. It’s the pills, it’s the food, it’s everything. All of it is fucking with me at once and I’m not strong enough to try and deal with any of it, so instead I try to ignore it instead.

I almost feel like I’m purposely being helpless. Like I want to drown, so I’m swimming out as far as I can go, as deep as I can get, so that when it happens I won’t have any energy left to turn around and get back to shore. I know how to get myself to feel a little better, to get my mood up a tiny bit, and I’m not even doing it. I’m not doing anything. I’m continually making it worse, knowingly. I seem to like being in misery or something. Everything is so confusing. I want to die and I can’t even do that yet. I don’t have anything in me to go through with something; I drift along because I don’t have any drive to try something, no interest in pursuing some dream like everyone else does.

There’s nothing that makes me go forward except boredom and apathy. I have no interest in stopping or going, so I merely go because that happens to be the direction other people pushed me in. If they had never pushed, I would have never started in the first place. I wouldn’t be in the game anymore. Maybe that would have been a better alternative, I don’t know.

All I know is that I am doing things out of duty with no desire to go anywhere with it or do anything. Unfortunately, I just can’t seem to bring myself to care about that.

Restless

I feel like I’m waiting for a train that’s never going to come. I realize it’s hardly been any time at all, and that I need to give it awhile, but already I’ve grown very impatient with this whole deal. I feel like shit, and no matter what I do it doesn’t go away. This is beyond the regular numb/apathetic I-couldn’t-care-if-the-world-exploded attitude. I haven’t done anything. I had the day off yesterday and I must have slept a good 20 hours, if not more. It’s not tiredness either, which is what I first suspected. I’m not tired, not physically anyway. I have books to read, games to play, a quad to mess with, yet I find myself with no desire to go through with any of it. I’d rather sit and do nothing it seems, or sleep and dream my strange dreams instead of staying awake only to feel perpetually restless. Nothing pleases me, and that is a little scary. 

Work was fine, though still as unorganized as ever. Two of the guys from where I used to work came to help out. I hate one of them, but the other and I are almost—dare I say it—friends. I pretty much spent every late shift I used to have with him, so we got more or less used to each other and traded bits of language back and forth. Today he somehow ended up with me, which was nice since it meant everything got done much more quickly than it usually would of had I wound up with someone else (e.g. one of the shift managers who STILL doesn’t know how to assemble). The other employee was cordial with me, even joking around a little, which isn’t anything new, but this time it was much less…vicious. He has that way about him that is joking bordering on serious, and the looks he’ll give you say enough to relay that he often thinks exactly what he’s laughing about.

I made the most money I’ve ever made in two weeks. I guess that is something to be excited about, though I was as flat about it as ever. I really wish I could feel a sense of accomplishment or something, but nothing has happened, not even the slightest rush. If there was one thing I could change, it would be to make myself feel something about all of this. Even if I can’t care about it, at least feel as sense of self-worth or something, rather than constant hate. It’s hard to get by when you loathe yourself this much. But I feel like I can’t stop the cycle that has already begun. Maybe I am nothing without it. Maybe if I didn’t hate, I would never have tried to do anything at all.

I have to say though, I no longer consider nothing to be a bad thing. I think it’s all just a matter of where you are in your head at the time.

It is none of my concern.

I must be under stress, but I’m so numb, I can’t tell. All I know is that I hate myself a lot more than I usually do, because I am completely out of control. I feel like it’s horribly obvious, that everyone must know, must have figured it out by now. I realize I am probably just being paranoid, but I can’t shake it. I’m fixated on this notion that I am failing. I must be breaking, but I’ve been too far in my own head to stop the degradation. Now I’m watching the fractures crumble further and I can’t bring myself to care. I’d rather the destruction. I’m too lazy to fix this anymore. I can’t care enough.

Apparently I am going to repeat myself over and over. I still haven’t figured out much logic to any of this. But if it makes me feel even slightly better, I suppose it is serving its purpose for now. 

I went in at five this morning. Naturally, for the entire restaurant, they scheduled all of three people to open. I spent the entire time running to the freezer prepping everything, which is the job no one is keen on doing. Somehow they expected me to have all of the food ready by the time we opened. Right. No one bothered to tell me this either. Somehow I got it all started up, late, but at least it got done. No one else showed up until later. One of my favorite people ended up doing grill (the meat and all of that), and for the whole of breakfast, I did all the orders alone until the changeover to lunch. I was incredibly grateful that she was there. She’s a bit like a mother hen with me, and she did several extra things that she didn’t have to just to help me out. I really wouldn’t have made it without her; she was one of the few people to even pretend to give a shit that I was having trouble keeping up with everything all on my own.

There’s no use getting pissed off about it anymore. They just don’t care, therefore I won’t care. It will get done when it gets done. I’m passed the point of giving a shit. Fuck them. Fuck their business. They aren’t worth this misery, and on second thought, neither am I. I don’t know where this will go, but I guess it’s not all that important.

The longest day.

I confess: today I feel like death warmed over. I got up this morning and actually had breakfast because I wasn’t sure if I’d be alright without it. I had no appetite yesterday, and didn’t eat all day while doing an 11 hour shift. I got home and more or less force-fed myself because I was worried I wouldn’t be able to get up in the morning. Apparently I wasn’t the only one feeling like shit. There seemed to be a group consensus that we should all pack up and leave, and even one of my favorite shift managers was joking around with me that she was going to lock all the doors and let us go. We all were more sluggish than usual and constantly asking the time.

I was ready to just stop. I was so groggy and out of  it, that it was like operating half asleep. By the time I was four hours in, I knew I had to eat something or go home, so I went next door to the gas station and bought a bunch of sugary junk to try to revive myself rather than stand around the rest of my shift being entirely useless. I need not have worried, really, because we were all fucking up, dropping things and taking longer than usual. Thankfully our forgiving shift manager was just as exhausted (I worked with her at the other restaurant, so we were already acquainted).

I have the day off tomorrow, and I know all I am going to do is sleep. I guess it doesn’t matter. I’m so numb nothing makes sense anyway. I’m sure it will all get as blurred as this day already has, as all meaning already has. Nothing at all seemed to matter today. All I could think of was sleep and getting away, far, far away. And death. But when don’t I think of that?

Damn this apathy. Damn it to hell. I’ll sleep it off.

I truly wish I would just die. I am weak and want the world to do it for me, because most days I don’t have enough left in me to follow through like I need to so badly.

I don’t have to be anyone.

The food didn’t taste like anything this morning. I didn’t want it. I finally gave up at trying to make it sweet and settled for bland. I ate as much as I could convince myself. I want to be Raymond. I want Tyler to put a gun to my head and see if the next morning I have the best breakfast I have ever tasted. I want to see if I wake up that morning and don’t feel sorry. I want to see if something comes to me in the morning haze, a feeling maybe. I want to wake up and experience something besides dread and a wretched disappointment with myself. 

People are in love with an idea of themselves. Maybe in a sick way, I am too. That vision is supposed to propel us through life, make us desire improvement and recognition for our efforts. We all want to appear better than we are, and as a consequence this gives us motivation to live, to have the satisfaction of not only pleasing ourselves, but receiving praise from others for being so fucking incredible. A vicious little cycle.

But if you don’t care? If that vision is all about being the cruelest person? You must find enough satisfaction in what you selfishly get out of it. I’m not suggesting that it isn’t always selfish, in fact, come to think of it, conventionally this is less so than most visions. In truth, you have to settle for less than everyone else. You have to be alright with the fact that no one is going to understand it or appreciate it as you do.  You have to go it all alone and hope that the monsters that lurk aren’t going to feed off of you in the dark. Your suffering means nothing to anyone, and they will laugh at you and attack you until you are beaten down and weakened. No one will tend to your wounds. No one will regret that they tore that wretched thing down. Ugly things shouldn’t be suffered to live, after all.

And I am not ready. I leapt off the tower of humanity out of fear instead of faith, and there was nothing below to break my fall. I crashed all the way down, condemned to be a mangled heap of something that once was. In my eyes you either accept yourself (even if it is reluctant) or you spend a lifetime doing the job of killing yourself rather than allowing the world to do it for you.

Maybe the true escape is being nothing and having no qualms about it, not being burdened by what you’ve been taught or by whatever inadequacies you see yourself as being afflicted with. Maybe we are being stupid by trying for something that we all know is as pointless as anything else.

All we do is struggle constantly against who we are because we are so enamored with what we could be.

Murphy’s Law.

Unfairness knows no bounds, it appears. It’s been a nightmare week, if I’m to be completely honest. I think there was a brief period there where I forgot what it was like to have the foundations of my life be shaken relentlessly, until the world feels like it has no right side up. Moods I can handle. I can take the thoughts. Bring them. It’s the rest, the things that are out of my control yet not out of my control.

I go on autopilot so much that it doesn’t feel alien to me anymore. Even doing things that are enjoyable has this sensation of being automatic. Everything has lost its magic. It’s not new, it’s not fresh and exciting. It’s what it was yesterday. It’s what it was last week. It’s what it was a month ago.

It starts off with my quad needing to get repaired. Even the tires are being replaced. So lately I’ve been borrowing my father’s quad to go out with, if only to get myself out of the suffocation of the house. The other day I was going up a steep hill and went over a bush to discover that it had a huge boulder concealed beneath it. I centered up on it quite violently even though I was going pretty slow. I get to the top of the slope and stop to check out what damage I’ve done. At first glance it doesn’t seem like I’ve done anything too terrible besides scratch it up a bit, so I shrug it off but decide to cut the trip short just in case. I’m dreading getting home, because I know my dad will give me one of those looks and probably won’t talk to me without a grimace for several days—if he talks to me at all.

Naturally he makes a big to do about it. I go inside and decide that he can throw his tantrum by himself. He made it out like I’d done something horrible, but I know there’s a good chance he was just exaggerating. He tends to do that so that he can have an excuse to be angry with me and give a long speech about how nothing ever goes right for him because everyone else is always fucking it up. It’s not until a day later that I realize something is missing.

I’m hurrying to get dressed for work. I barely slept at all, having stayed up all night staring at the television screen in one of my typical bouts of numbness. Then I go to get the cellphone and can’t find it. I search everywhere, throwing things off of my messy desk in a huff. I don’t find it. I’m running late. I leave without it, using my dad’s instead.

I get home and he is in a mood. Hostile as fuck, and not someone I want to be near. I search through my room, search everywhere, and can’t find it. I begin to think that I lost it on a trail. It could have easily fallen out of my pocket. I spent the next few hours looking for it. It was hot and I was tired, but I looked. I managed to find the trail where I’d hit the rock, but it wasn’t there. I even walked down the entire hill, checking.

I get into this mode, the autopilot one. I misplace things perpetually. I forget what I’m supposed to be doing, or why. It drives me insane at times that I can’t keep up with the demand. I feel like I’m so barely alive.

Other things went wrong that I don’t even want to think about. The cellphone had to be shut off. That same day as I’m using my computer in the living room, it suddenly shuts off. I plug it into the power cord and leave it for several hours. When I come back it hasn’t charged. The battery gave out. Fortunately when I ordered it, one of the things I did not skip on was an extra one, so I used that. Just as an example of how stupid it can get, as I was taking the back panel off to replace it, the flashlight I went to use to better see where it was attached, flickered and died. I feel like everything I touch is doomed.

My cat is sick. He keeps shitting everywhere. He’s done it on the floor, in my chair, on my bed. This morning I went to go to sleep and as I start pulling the covers over me I let out a groan. It was the second time in a week that he’s decided to leave me a nice present. I was so tired I just removed the offensive material, balled up the blankets, then left them in the hall and snatched up a few clean ones from the cupboard. I only slept a few hours on the bare mattress, then threw myself a nice private tantrum.

And here I am now. I know I’m being a baby about it, but what does it matter? I haven’t said anything to anyone, just went on my merry fucking way as I always do. It seems like there is no point to say anything. My mother gave me an earful this morning, going on and on about how bad dad was yesterday and how he was saying all his bullshit about me.

The one thing that pisses me off the most about all of this, is that if it was just me on my own it would have been fine. I would have bought a new phone and not worried about it. I would have looked at the quad, my computer battery, and shrugged. But you can’t do that in my house. I can’t say how many times my dad has done something stupid with his phone. He’s left it on top of his car, lost it, dropped it in the lake…. And of course it is no big deal. I do it once and the world stops spinning to punish me for my simple little mistake. Gee, dad, so fucking sorry.

Over, done with, gone, I suppose.

Don’t look back.

I don’t like turmoil. I think everything is still building as it was before, going toward this insane climax that I am trying to ignore. Things keep stopping and starting, and I miss the sense of sameness that I am so used to.

The other day, my mom decided to have another of her moods. She gets distraught over things very easily. I don’t quite remember what it was (yes, it was that important), but she was bitchy when I got up, and she was pretty rude when I said good morning to her. I happened to be in an alright mood (a rarity for mornings), so it kind of irritated me, but I just thought to myself, “whatever” and rumaged around the kitchen, pointedly ignoring her. I could hear her talking on the phone, sounding tired and monotone.

She always changes her voice when she’s upset about something. She loses inflection and kind of croaks things out as though her throat is sore or something, and it really pisses me off for some reason. Maybe because I feel like that all the time but I don’t have to make a fucking show of it to get some sympathy.

So I decide I’m going to go out since it is relatively sunny, and I shower and get dressed and all of that, then go back into the livingroom to tell her that I’m leaving for awhile. She’s sitting there in front of her computer playing solitaire. Her head is bowed down and she’s crying. I can tell from across the room, even.

I say it flatly: “What’s wrong.”

It’s not even a question, because I know she’ll elaborate. She’s like that. If I do something that bothers her she goes straight to my dad with it, like a child that doesn’t know how to handle a problem. And she always sits there and prattles on about things to me, things she knows I don’t give a shit about. I have told her on more than one occasion that I could easily go into a monologue about the digestive system if she wants to keep talking about the price differences on food from different stores. We’re nothing alike; our interests are like night and day. Finding things in common is quite difficult, which is probably why we often fall into constant arguing.

Of course, she jumps on the chance to have someone to talk to. I know she’s lonely, but fuck. It’s not like anyone is going to pay me the same courtesy. She goes onto explain the whole thing, and blah, blah, blah. I’m standing there with a helmet in my hand, impatiently waiting for her to finish. I don’t bother to tell her that I’m missing half of what she’s saying because I have my headphones on. She doesn’t notice. But I make it obvious that I’m not in the mood to commiserate.

All I say is “Yeah.” 

She wants to say more, I can tell, but my heart is like ice to her. I don’t know what I feel toward her anymore. I’m a physical guardian, it seems, nothing more. It does not go beyond that much of the time, and it scares me a little. I should feel bad, try to help, but all I can think of is all the times I suffer alone, constantly. The ache of misery never leaves me, even if I am number than numb. I am not a savior, and I refuse to be hers. She can mourn her loss all she wants, I will not stand by her and offer my shoulder. Those times are gone.

I look at her. I sigh, more out of annoyance at being delayed than anything else.

I walk away.

Sometimes giving up sounds so much better.

I feel like I don’t want to fight for me anymore. I want to give up, just stop all of this madness. I keep telling myself that it is so pointless to continue, that I am not going to be mourned long, that there is nothing in this life I’m going to be missing out on. I can’t love, I can’t be, not without feeling so incredibly wrong. I want nothing from this place. It holds no magic for me anymore, no mystery that must be solved. I figured it out as well as I ever will and now all I want is out.

I don’t want to have a future. I want to jepordize it so that there is no chance, no more excuses for me to continue. I’m only doing this because it is what I was taught. It’s not what I want. Fuck, it’s never what I want. I know I am a failure for willing this all away. So many people certainly have it worse, but they want to be here, for whatever reason. In these moments of clarity, it is not the uselessness and pointlessness that hurts the most, but the knowledge that there is something in me, somewhere, that has inadvertently kept me going. I know that this survival instinct is so fucking futile, and it disgusts me that I hold onto something after learning just how ugly it is on the inside. I’m stupid for doing so, just as worthless as the people I hate for accepting this system, embracing and loving it for the pseudo power it grants them.

Wave salvation in my face and I’ll throw it all away. I don’t want to go to the interview in two days; I’d rather…not be around instead.

How fucked up is that? I need to stop thinking like this. I need to face what I hate. But all I want is an easy way out, a permanent darkness where consciousness doesn’t exist. Where I don’t exist. I want to never have a thought again. Because I think I won’t make it. I can’t bear going on when it’s nothing but pain and hatred and wallowing and lies. This isn’t going to change. I’m not going to wake up tomorrow and feel like I live in a beautiful world, with wonderful people that I want to care for and help. If I make it, I’m going to hate every second, and I’m so sure of it…that I can’t stand it.

If I live I’m an idiot. If I die I’m a failure who gives up too easily. There is nothing to win, always a draw.

Always grey.

Nothing changes, not when you look closely.

I was leafing through an old journal for lack of anything else to do. I’m biding my time still, and know that my chances are still incredibly low of getting out of this anytime soon except by an unnatural means. God, I keep saying that. I keep saying it and not doing it, and I still can’t figure out why. It’s getting to that point where whatever conclusions I have drawn are starting to disintegrate around the edges from being over-analyzed. I’ve gone and tattered what little hope there was.

6.26.07

“I want to destroy things. I want nothing less than chaos. My thoughts lately have not been good ones.”

Then another, undated one, just one line.

“Something horrible is growing.”

My oldest one is falling apart. The pages detach from the slightest touch, so it’s been wrapped with a rubber-band. The earliest entry is dated 12.25.04, since the journal was a Christmas present. There are several passages about God that I don’t recall writing. It starts off fairly benign, then progressively becomes more hateful. It sounds much like me, but different somehow. The bitterness isn’t quite so strong. There’s, dare I say it, hope.

1.13.05

“I keep thinking I want to die, but do I really? I’m not quite sure anymore. There must be something better than this, somewhere.”

I love my naivete. It’s sickeningly sweet, makes me want to jump into a time machine and go corrupt myself early. I was still in highschool in these entries, as there are references to my friends outside of school and my trouble with the very few “friends” I made in the home school program.

12.25.04

“Is it normal to have such hatred for people? Or am I just insane? I ask others—and they hate people—but they still seem to like to be around people. How is that hate?”

I know who this is. It came to me the minute I read it. Those few ”friends” (who insulted me more than befriended me; my first taste of a purely selfish friendship where I had no attachment to the individuals), were the first open ‘misanthropes’ I ever met. It was the first time I heard it spoken about openly–the hatred of all things human with a pulse—even if it all was garbage from a bunch of ignorant, sex-starved morons who were more or less cowards when I finally confronted them. There was a short period where I idolized them for being so open. But then, as the year went on…I changed.

When I finally had gotten what I needed—gall—I tore their egos down without a backward glance. And they shattered. The feeling of power was so new and fresh to me, and the vitriol tasted better than anything. They had belittled me, laughed, yet  reluctantly acknowledged me because I didn’t ask questions and didn’t reveal their secrets. In truth, they hated me because I wasn’t openly cruel, because I didn’t seem like a bully. I was shy beyond belief, in a very innocent way. I used to let my anxiety overwhelm me back then—it still does sometimes—but I was so consumed by it that I never stood up for anything, I just hid away in a corner, willing it away.

But then it all made sense finally. They didn’t hate me. They liked me, because I was the sort they thought they could torture and get away with it: I was the perfectly willing masochist, painfully sycophantic. But…the snake always had fangs. And I bit. I snapped like a twig when everything came crashing down at home, and that sadistic, hateful bully inside finally snatched onto the hole in the curtain and ripped it clean open. Instead of hating only myself, I hated them, I let the evil in me lash out at someone new. 

And when the shy, demure girl in the corner struck, nobody saw it coming. They stopped talking to me. And all it took were well-placed words and a withered, pathetic ego that I distorted to the size of a cathedral. They were all talk. They were afraid. Action wasn’t something they did. No, they were the sort that laughed and harassed, believing that nothing would come of it, that there were no consequences. So when I was the one to stand up and ‘do’ something, it was enough to send them running, tails between their legs. And I always thought they were so brave. Fuck, I was such an idiot.

Undated, sometime in 2005.

“Everyone is their own god, their own devil, it just depends on which side we favor and allow the world to see.”

I honestly don’t remember any of this. When I open the pages, it’s my messy, twitchy script in black ink, but it feels like I wrote down someone else’s history. Was it really mine? I keep forgetting that I was once normal and had friends and people who were acquainted with me. Nowadays I walk into the local store and no one knows my face. Since moving, I’ve barely left my house. I stay home without leaving for a few months at a time sometimes.

There’s a strange awakening of hatred when I read what I’ve written. I guess it is the bitterness. I hate that there are weaknesses in those words that are so glaringly obvious to me now, but were only harmless words when they were pressed into the pages. I know that if I do manage to make it ten years (the thought alone is daunting) I’d end up staring at this and laughing hollowly. I’d tear it all apart like I seem to do with everything these days. I’d see the flaws, standing out starkly in the neat type reflecting back at me from the monitor. I’d look at everything I’ve accomplished and disregard it with a wave of my hand as a time when I was too dumb, too young to know better.

And by now, I should know better, but this time around I’m not stupid enough to think that this is all I can learn. There’s always room to become more bitter, to hate everything just the tiniest bit more. To lose even more of myself along every winding trail that I walk, without even noticing until it’s all fallen away.

The awkwardness of living.

I left the house for the first time in at least a month, it might have been two; I have lost track of time. It’s strange, trying to integrate. I feel dissociative. I feel like I’m not a part of this place, just an observer, just someone watching with the flat affect, that humdrum numbness that is beginning to seep into everything. It is right sometimes, that apathy; it makes me perfect. It makes me…unaffected.

I didn’t feel any anxiety, more of an awkwardness. This hasn’t happened in a long time. There was no pulling from the bottom of my stomach, no lurch that made me want to run to the nearest corner and vomit. The cold sweat never came, my voice was quiet, but steady. Acceptance, I guess. Acceptance that though I am nothing to these people and they are nothing to me, in order to survive I have to tolerate them. It didn’t hurt; I can’t feel anything right now anyway.

I was standing in line for coffee. No, I didn’t force my mother to go get it for me; I took the money and went to the register myself without even thinking about it. She was on the other side of the store. It sounds like nothing, but my misanthropy and introverted nature have made simple tasks like that absolute torture. The looks, the eyes I can feel burning into me. The knowledge that my ineptness is completely and totally visible, that I am making a fool of myself before I even speak. This usually floods me, but not this time, not when everything is so impossibly cut off, disconnected. I’m more like something automated than something living.

The awkwardness came when I realized I didn’t know who was next; I assumed I was, but the woman behind me had moved toward the register and I just stood there. I blinked, thought about it, and stayed exactly as I was. I wasn’t in a hurry, and I really couldn’t care less if she went ahead of me. Then she tells me to go, smiling. I say sorry, and mutter something about not paying attention.

Again, this sounds normal. It sounds like any everyday event. But the fact is, standing in front of a cash register and having to order something and converse with an employee is more painful to me than something dying. I feel it like a tragedy. It builds like some sort of fucked up finale: standing, waiting, knowing that impending doom is coming for me. That soon, I’m going to have to talk to whoever is standing there, I’m going to have to feign that the last flitting thought through my head was not about sticking one of my hands into the blender sitting on the tabletop. Then, ding. I’m next.

I had a bit of a breakdown today. I threw a silent tantrum and binged on everything I could find in the pantry. I must have eaten two days’ worth of food (at least by my meager standards). I had to get my mind off of the thoughts, I had to concentrate on feeling something besides complete agony. Breathing, existing…it hurts more than anything sometimes. I wanted to sleep, but it seemed that no one would have it. The cat meowed, attempting to rip the tape I’d stuck to the bottom of my door to block out the sound of existence. I locked the door, but people tried to get in anyway. Finally I managed a few hours. I woke up ravenous and dull feeling. I ate sugar like it was a drug; I needed the shock to my system because I was feeling so incredibly low.

I hate these mood swings. My six month diet change has altered everything, made it all worse. I’ve menstrated twice this month, which to me is bizarre after having times in the past where I’ve gone years without a single period. But it makes me emotional in a very strange way. I cry for stupid reasons, but yet I don’t feel it…. How to explain…. It’s like I’m crying for how sad I am, but I’m using other things in order to pry the tears out of myself. So I’m not crying for the movie, I’m crying for the residules of whatever this is. The darkness. Because I can never cry for it. I never get to shed it; it just stays there, impervious to everything. Perhaps then, I do need to mood swings, if only to vent.

It’s ridiculous what effects me and what doesn’t. My boldness shows in some places, yet shrinks in others. I wore my corset to the stores, and didn’t cover it up with a jacket. Just didn’t care. I like it, I felt like wearing it. People stared and I didn’t care. Where I live isn’t exactly the place to dress up; I was out of place. How fitting. Sometimes I think I like that they know it, others…I’m not so sure. But why can I wear what I wish yet not present myself without feeling incredibly inadequate/out of place? I want to laugh at the sheer stupidity of it. 

It’s been a long day. I need more sleep.