Still can’t find it.

I’ve come to despise getting up early. I can no longer sleep 14 hours as I used to so easily. I miss that now, because when I wake I have an entire day ahead of me, one I never quite know what to do with. I want to feel better. I want to wake up and feel as though it’s a good thing to have hours at my disposal. But now it is as if the hours left over after work are nothing but fillers that I ungraciously want to toss aside and forget about. I keep talking about this, maybe because I am uncertain what it means or what I can do to change it.

Every day off I try. I’ll go through ten different projects trying to find one to keep me occupied, or I’ll play some videogame for a very short while, or I’ll even sit down and make a rather sad attempt at reading something, even if it is a local newspaper that’s more mundane to me than perpetually watching the Weather Channel. Anything. Usually what happens is I eat. I cook throughout the day, and eat, over and over and over. I always end up sick and regretting it by evening, but that doesn’t slow the process. I continue until, finally, I find myself doubled over, my stomach so fed up that it will make quite a valiant attempt to free up space.

I might heave for twenty minutes, but I stubbornly refuse to vomit. No, I get to live with these consequences. I get to spend the night in pain, and the next morning nauseated, and go to work and pretend that there’s nothing wrong with me, even though the upper part of my stomach is so painfully swollen it will literally have gained inches overnight to accomodate whatever I ended up binging on. It takes about two days to return to normal, and by then I either begin again, or don’t eat at all.

Why I do this is still not clear. Stress, I would think, though I rarely show any kind of panic or anger at work. All of it seems to come to me when I get home, like the gates to hell have been opened, and it swarms me suddenly. Our turnover rate is extraordinarily high, particularly in the area I work in, and it’s easy to guess why. We must have begun our original orientation about six months ago with about a hundred people all together, that were spread out over four different stores to be trained before coming to the store we are at now. We have a board the in breakroom with congratulations signs on it for those who made it to the sixth month. There are about fifteen names on it, nearly all of which are those who became managers.

We constantly get new crew, and I find myself struggling to remember their names. Most of them won’t last, I can tell already. They spend their first two weeks being willing slaves, then get lazier and lazier once they get comfortable. I get irritated and will literally walk around them if they aren’t going fast enough for my taste. I’m sick of being blamed for their inability to do a very simple job. All it takes is energy, but they whine constantly about not getting their breaks when all they do is stand around, while I’m busy doing most of their job and my own. I’m lucky if I get two breaks out of three.

I come back from breaks and generally find everything backed up, with a screen full orders, shitloads of empty trays (all of which should be filled with food), and two managers in the front screaming orders at people, trying in vain to sort through the chaos, while their shitty front people continuously hand out the wrong orders. There have been times where they will pull me from my half early because one of the newer crew has gotten too far behind to catch up on their own.

I hate breaks. I hate them. I need to sit down; I shouldn’t be running around for 6-9 hours straight, but because nearly all the crew in the back is new and all of the girls I generally work with aren’t around because of training at the moment, it’s like going into a nightmare. The floor will be a disaster, slicked in grease and covered with bits of fallen food, then there will be a screen blinking, with four orders up and god knows how many pending. The machine that prints out special receipts will have a tail of paper hanging down to the floor, sometimes with more receipts shooting out the top and floating down into a pile. The managers always give me a sympathetic look. And then of course, I have to fix it.

One particular instance, several weeks ago, I finally got so irritated I sent the woman away from the table (I had already been pulled from my break twenty minutes early and wasn’t a happy camper). I wouldn’t even let her work with me, that was how badly it was going. She’s a shift manager (highest you can go unless you are the store manager) who has been working as long as I have, and the woman can barely make a sandwich. To top it off she is incredibly slow about it for no reason other than that she doesn’t want to work. I finally looked over at her and said, “Go do prep”, because she was standing there looking at the food more than she was making it. No one said a word.

And still they have been constantly hinting to me at my promotion as some kind of manager (they all seem to have different ideas…), which I don’t even know if I want. In all honesty, I’m an idiot. When I talk about this job like I’m good at it, all that I mean is that I’m willing to do it. That’s the only problem with employees: they don’t want to do it like it should be done. It’s an easy fucking job. You memorize some shit and make food, how hard can it be? But apparently no one wants to work for their money, or deal with that fact, that yeah, we get screamed at, yeah, there are some angry customers who come in and treat you like shit. I’ve had people standing at the counter give me step-by-step instructions on how to make their sandwiches because they ‘don’t trust the grill people to do it properly’. Yeah, because apparently if you work in fast food you must be a dumb fucking cunt that can’t read ‘add 1 cheese, no mustard’ on a screen.

It’s fucking insulting, the way people will look at me if I walk down to the local supermarket to pick up a few things and happen to be wearing my uniform. At the bank they always ask me, ‘where do you work?’ and when I answer they have to restrain themselves from raising an eyebrow. Yeah, I know, I’m not in the white-collar job my parents wanted me to have, I’m not going to college to become yet another of the supposedly educated masses. I stand over by some grills all day, making minimum wage, then go home and never leave the house.

To be incredibly honest, most days it seems like being dead would be more rewarding. I’m still not sure how to change that perception for myself.

Not this time.

When you spend enough time alone, you learn that there’s freedom nowhere. Even if you only commit your most horrible of acts all by yourself in a darkened room, you will still be judged. They will be there, trailing after you like a shadow, passing on their useless ideas to you, barring you from what you need should you permit them. And how easy it is to let them. How easy it is to feel as though the world is like this god, peering down at you, condemning you for what you are. But now it comes from yourself. Now the enemy has infiltrated your inner sanctum, and once it is let in, there are very few ways to get it out. It will cling until you tear it into pieces, until you find something, somewhere that validates you and makes you good enough to stand up for, to fight for. But sometimes you never find that….

I used to be afraid that if I thought anything bad, God would punish me. I’d wake up the next day and something terrible would happen to me or my parents or my friends. I used to spend a good five minutes in the night with the blankets up to my chin,  praying endlessly in this cycle. For anything and everything, for things to go alright the next day, for no one to die…. I’d say the same parts over and over again, until the words became jumbled. Repeat it over and over, like the fucker couldn’t hear me, like if I didn’t say it a hundred times he wouldn’t do it for me. You have to be like a slave to get him to listen, I used to think.

I’d walk up to the holy water in church sometimes and drop something in it. A necklace, a bracelet. Like somehow some water in a dish was going to do something to me. Things like that only have power because we believe they do. And what did I believe, really? I was clearing my conscience. I was trying to feel like I was doing everything that could possibly be done to keep everyone safe. Ah, what it is to be a child!

The prayers eventually turned to curses. I’d spend ten minutes facing the wall, white-knuckled, saying this darker mantra in my head.

Dear God, I hate you.
Dear God, I hate you.
Dear God, I hate you.
I hope you fucking die.
Dear God, I hate you.
Dear God, I hate you.
Dear God, I hate you.
I hope you fucking die.

It’s funny to me now, to admit to it. It seems almost crazy even. But no matter what happens, I always believe somehow. I can’t seem to fully fade into atheism, regardless of how pessimistic I get. I will die believing, and I will die still hating. I don’t even remember why anymore, how it all started, what moment it shifted. I hate him for being here, maybe. I think that’s what angers me so much; that I’m here and feel I had no choice. In the end it translates to an anger at myself for not doing anything about it. It’s me that I really hate; God is like this backdrop I can use to make it less inconspicuous.

Eventually that rage came back to haunt me. And I know now that that’s the voice in my head, the one that laughs and thinks this is all such a great game. I feel like I drown myself over and over, barely letting myself up for air.

You like that? Does it feel good?

I’m the one that I believe has failed. I’m the one that doesn’t want to do it. I’m the one who won’t die but yet refuses to really live. I don’t understand it. I have nothing in me that really wants to go forward, just this blind apathy to lead me around in the dark. And why? Why can’t that too leave me?

I wish now for some of that emotional clarity, where I wake up for the briefest of instants and suddenly I can’t stop crying for all that I’ve done, where I can’t think back and see a single reason at all to go on. Months ago that happened. Before the mountain. Before….  Was it before I started working? I still don’t know why I lived. I don’t know how I could hate myself so much and still continue to breathe. It feels impossible. But it was pure in all the ways this is not. I felt something, believed something. It wasn’t a blank, numb acknowledgement of self-loathing, it was something that felt real.

Never again? I was wrong to swear it off. I should have used those feelings when I had the chance, because I may float on forever in this apathetic void and not have that again. I may do it in a moment of weakness instead of a moment of strength where I am truly living with that feeling instead of feeling nothing, going on memory alone.

“There is no more lively sensation than that of pain; its impressions are certain and dependable, they never deceive as may those of the pleasure women perpetually feign and almost never experience.”

 

I won’t edit this. I don’t have the time.

Insensitive

I had a bit of a bad day yesterday, regardless of anything I may have said. I almost didn’t leave the house to go to town for groceries. Again, one of those tiny things setting me off. I weighed myself, had a fit. It was literally like taking a trip back in time. I remember these moments.

I have ten different things piled on the bed, and I keep tearing new things from the closet, pulling it over my head. I walk to the mirror, reject it, and the process starts again. Then half my closet is strewn across the bed. For some reason I grabbed for my old favorite shirt. At one point when I wore it I weighed 190 pounds. And that’s what I felt like in it. Like I was back there again, out of fucking control and with no willpower to stop it. Even though it was as loose as a nightshirt, nearly down to my knees, I couldn’t take it for some reason. There was nothing comforting about it. It was horrible and painful, and I found myself fisting bits of my hair, wanting to rip it from the roots.

Oh yes, this is a possibility, oh yes, this is where I’ve been, where I’ve gotten to. We’re the same person this girl and me, no matter how much I want to dispute it and claim that I’ve changed. I can be there again, and I know exactly how I feel about that. I’d rather be dead. I feel like I’m there already, even if everyone tells me I’m thin already and can stop now. Doesn’t look that way. Doesn’t feel that way.

I ended up ripping the seams on a sweatshirt in anger and throwing it to the back of the closet. I wore all black again, layers over layers so I wouldn’t have to feel like I could be seen in any way. I even coated my face over in make up, which I never do. I almost couldn’t bear to go.

My father and I had an argument. He keeps telling me to keep a checkbook, which I should. Unfortunately banking falls into the ‘I absolutely don’t give a shit’ category, which is why I made a mistake recently. I look over to him and mumble that I’ll watch it from now on, and he goes into this whole, “well why are you saying it like that?” line of questioning.

“I don’t care. I just don’t.” Unapologetic, flat.

His irritation is building. It’s coming off him in waves, and he won’t even look away from me to give me a moment’s rest from that accusing fucking gaze. I stare at my computer screen, blinking rapidly. Not because of him, but because of myself. Because I really don’t care, and only ten minutes earlier I was laying on my bed studying the pattern on my comforter thinking about the next time I can go up the mountain. Thinking about going off  into the snow. It would be a miserable way to die.

He goes on, asking me why, and I have no emotion. There’s nothing in me that wants to tell him. Now I’m getting annoyed myself and I want him to leave, and I’m hiding behind my hair because I’m crying from my own lack of caring. I know it’s wrong. But I can’t change it. It’s the one thing I have no control over, though I hate to say it. I hate to admit defeat. I loathe it. But I have lost. I lost a long time ago. This is why I continue my downward spiral.

“You wouldn’t understand,” I finally get out, still looking at the screen.

 I feel like one of those angsty teenagers in a Lifetime movie, but I don’t seem to have any pangs of regret about it. I don’t want to explain. I could talk of it a thousand years and he will still not get it. I would not get it if I hadn’t felt it for myself. How is it possible to be so blank? This I can’t answer. It seems against everything to not care, to have not the slightest bit of feeling over your own life and where it’s going. I’m a feather floating around, soon to hit the ground, soon to lose all flight. But what does that matter to this head of mine? I make no sense; even I can’t understand myself.

What he says next almost makes me want to smile. All I catch for sure is: ”You can shoot yourself.” Then something about ‘this is your life, start caring about it’.

Yeah, I can shoot myself. You don’t think I’d do it, do you? How wrong you are. It’s nice to know you haven’t forgotten our little conversation.  

I keep saying I’ll take care of it, but I don’t sound even slightly convincing. I can hear the irritation in my own tone, and he’s giving me one of those looks like I’m the most useless piece of trash he’s ever seen. I don’t care. I am not valued solely by his interpretation of my worth.

He walks out, finally, and I breathe in, embracing my own apathy.  

I can hear him through the wall, in an angry, loud voice: “She’s insensitive to her own plight.”

Yes, yes I am. That is the only thing about me that can be called beautiful. At least I am smart enough to know that I am inconsequential and anything I do in this life makes no fucking difference. It’s over when your born; it’s even more over when you die.

You’ll get over it.

Sounds like self-pity…

I don’t know what I am going to do. I can’t stay home like this; it’s driving me insane. I need something to do.  I need someone to stand in front of me and tell me exactly what to do. So I don’t have to think, so I don’t have to spend all these waking moments looking for an out that I’m not supposed to want.

I’ve changed. I can’t sustain myself anymore. I’ve weakened from all the pressure and now I can’t do what I used to do. The pointlessness of everything is glaring back at me more than ever. I get home and look around and think, “What now?” I don’t care if I have the job that people consider the lowest, I don’t care if all I do is work. They keep calling me in, or having me stay late, and not once have I protested. It’s better that I’m not here. It’s better that I’m not home. I tire of my daydreams of suicide.

I finally allowed myself to heal a little. Now there are pink lines instead of red, and some a deep purple, just everywhere, as though there was no rhyme or reason to it, only a sick kind of desperation. But I admit that I am throwing tantrums more often than ever. Tossing things into the wall (particularly in the freezer where I can’t be heard), or randomly sobbing when something doesn’t go my way. No one has witnessed any of it, thankfully. The crying is almost comical; it is literally over the stupidest most mundane of things. I want to laugh at myself, at how pathetic it is. Can’t live at all, can you? Can’t take it when something is broken, or the food you want isn’t there, or you can’t sleep? What a waste it is for me to even breathe sometimes, such a snivelling, stupid thing. You know why I won’t work the registers? I’m afraid I’ll fuck up the math. I’m sure counting coins would be too much for me. I’m just that stupid. Don’t even give me that responsibility; I’m sure I can’t handle it. My register would probably be off by twenty dollars.

What does it matter, really? It was all over before it began.

A way of life….

All I think when I am awake is ‘I should be sleeping’. I’m not sure what I’m doing wrong anymore. I’ve done what I was expected, but found nothing in any of it. I’ve worsened. I haven’t even tried to go for walks. I always go every day during the fall, but not this year. Winter is already setting in, and the sky is black long before its time because there are always heavy grey clouds layered over the blue, blocking out the few straining rays of sunset.

It’s a bleak transition from night and day, one that I have come to like because it feels like less time is spent waiting for night to come. Just the same, the days feel far to long. Time crawls by, and I find myself doing nothing more and more often. It seems like I lie in bed perpetually while I’m home, only getting up to eat. Sleep doesn’t come easily like it used to, and instead of losing myself in it I just stay motionless for literally hours on end, staring up at the ceiling.

There must be better than this, but in this mood I will not find it. I could be dropped into the world of paradise and I would still find a dark, forgotten corner to hole myself up inside until the brightness leaves the sky. It’s a crazy way to be. It makes me feel inhuman. I’m like some animal, only awakened by the most basic of things. Leave the higher thought to the others, I say, I will not be bothered with it. I don’t care what this is or why, I only want to fall away from it. I want it to be gone from me like a demon banished so that maybe this won’t feel so much like a hell.

Obscure

The changes in mood are killing me. I can even feel it in my body now, this deep ache of exhaustion. When you are away, working, it’s easy to get lost in thought, it’s easy to forget everything but never-ending line of meaningless tasks. I’ve been less low lately. Not well, but at a spot that was almost bearable. Then I wake up yesterday and that feeling of pointlessness was stronger than ever. This numb state of mind and body has overtaken me once again, to the extent that I feel automated. I feel…as though I am not really alive. And why must it be this way? Why does it shift so rapidly? Why, if it is just hormonal, can I not bring myself to change anything?

I’m falling faster and faster, down into the black, all my senses fading–literally. I get so bad at times that food has almost no taste, warm doesn’t feel so warm, and pain is a dull, pointless thing that barely touches me. I don’t understand the purpose of this, I don’t understand what it is that I am asking myself to see. That it can be worse? That I am nothing? That even the smallest of pleasures can be taken away?

Numbness is beyond pain, and somehow it hurts more than anything.  I can’t be emotional. I will die that way, I see that. My worst moments were lived when the numbness was gone and there was nothing but a raw wound. I can’t bear it. I can’t feel. I am so used to being without it, that to experience it is overwhelming.

They say that each day survived is one that makes you stronger. But why is it then that I only find my resolve growing weaker, my mind struggling less and less to evade these thoughts? Am I obsessed with it? Have I become so enamored with an idea that I have allowed it control over my life? The answer I get is probably. I am lazy, I am weak and stupid, and I don’t want to try. What better a way to end that misery than to simply…stop it from existing?

I am sick of apologizing for my selfishness. I am tired of my own inaction. Everything about me is so horrid that I can’t bear it sometimes. I feel smothered by my own self hatred, and even locking myself away in this darkened room isn’t enough to ease it. It just keeps getting worse and worse, to the point where I find myself laying in bed, willing myself to call into work and tell them that I am through. I can’t do it. I can’t do anything, because I can’t stand to be myself, and I am too set in my ways to ever change.  

Every morning I have this fight with myself, and every morning the numbness is all that convinces me to get up. I don’t know what else to do, and sometimes I know I don’t have it in me to finish this. All it takes is a single bullet and one simple squeeze on a trigger, right below the chin. Kaboom, and there is nothing to fret over. There is no job, there are no problems, there is no pointlessness. There is nothing. And most importantly there is no life. And is that so terrible? Do I honestly believe that I make a shit bit of difference anywhere, to anyone? I am not an integral part of anything; I hold nothing together. I have always been something clinging to the fringes of existence, too small and insignificant to ever hold sway.

 And I don’t feel sorry for myself; it was all my own doing. I wanted obscurity and here it is. I would have been out of here a long time ago without it. I am grateful because I know that the day I die I will have accomplished and meant nothing, just like everything else, and at least my one redeemable quality was that I was not stupid enough to deny and fight it.  That will have to be enough. It must be enough.

It is all that we can ever expect.

The lies may just be for myself.

There comes a point where you have to admit that there’s a problem. Not just acknowledge, but openly accept that ‘hey I am doing this to myself’. This isn’t one of those ‘hand yourself over to a higher power’ things, this is a ‘okay, I am being fucking stupid’ kind of things. I know this woman from work who’s in AA to clear up some DUI or something. She gets drunk after every meeting. The irony of that is beautiful to me; I don’t much believe in self denial in any form. You do what you feel is necessary, even if it is self-destructive. Getting there is half the journey, I guess you could say, why waste it in more misery than is required?

My main concern is that I am stuck in a cycle of reward/punishment. Always have been. But with added…annoyances, it has progressed into a much more formidable monster. I’ve been bingeing/starving consistently, hurting myself, and growing ever the more solitary. In fact, there have been times where although I live in the same house as my father, I have not seen him for days on end. I sleep as much as possible, though it is not nearly enough. I deny myself painkillers for my useless back and whatever other ailments this ridiculous job has further irritated. I sometimes have trouble getting up in the morning. I find myself closing my eyes at every opportunity, and slinking off to hide in the parking lot on any breaks I might have, wherein I pace back and forth until my time is up. Caged, is one way to describe it.

Then the moods. These moments of panic where I convince myself that death is the only way out, my only escape, my only freedom from this place that has trapped me in this dark, grubby little corner. I want out, the voice says to me. And with an hour of crying and anxiety, I fall asleep. Sometimes I wake feeling better, others…only worse. I feel like part of me is constantly rebelling from life itself, and that yes, suicide is the only cure for something so diseased and fucked up as myself.

Many things do not deserve to be born. Many things that do are never given the proper chance. Then there are those of us who float along somewhere in between, these forgotten, lost children who can claim no god or higher purpose as their own. There will never be peace. Maybe that is why I always laugh when I so much as hear that word. For me, there will be no rest, not until I am gone. There is nothing shameful in pulling out of a race you know in your heart you can’t complete, however, there is a problem with lying about why you chose not to finish.

No, I am not fully done. Everything about me is incomplete. I am simply tired and no longer wish to try. And maybe that is cowardice, to shun a future, maybe it is weakness to not carry on because you refuse to summon the strength. But then, so be it. I will never be perfect; I can never see myself as what I always wanted to be. I am doomed to strive for it yet accomplish none of it. Sometimes that is just how it must be.

Head in the clouds.

Every day is becoming this agonizing trial in patience. I’m so used to my little world of nothing that this is all a complete shock to me. I was so far away from the petty squabbles and the gossiping, that even now I stand back and barely understand it. Why are feelings important, I wonder? I only ask this when I feel nothing at all. It’s as though all memory of feelings and what they mean gets shut down. I grow confused. Peoples’ reactions make little to no sense to me. Why do they concern themselves over such things? Why do they believe that I too am worrying over it?

It’s difficult to worry when you don’t care. I can’t form a normal attachment these days, and perhaps it is the people. But they are nice—a lot of them—we get along, yet the idea of carpooling with them or meeting somewhere after work makes me cringe. I instantly think, “how boring, how troublesome”. It would be my younger life over again, sitting in a friend’s bedroom in the dark trying to recuperate before returning to the screaming, giggling bunch in the next room. I often found myself bored and uninterested, and it used to drive me crazy.

And these days, the disinterest continues to grow. I’m losing hold on the things that meant so much to me before, and I have little explanation as to why. All I can conclude is that I am slowly letting go. I am slowly becoming something that finds no pleasure in anything. And it is so dull a mindset, so drab a future. I don’t want to bear more years in this room staring at the walls, or doing something new every five minutes to keep my mind moving. Why does it have to be this way? Why does this only grow worse? I am not sitting here alone all day, I’m interacting as everyone told me to, but yet I feel so much more discontent than before. It has solved nothing. I feel so ill when I think about it all later, when I’ve gotten home. I always regret every word I have said.

My little shows of rebellion are laughable. I am so weak now, moreso than ever. I’m losing sight of what I believed, falling in and embracing this hollow nothingness where everything is inconsequential. I didn’t want this. I wanted to be numb, but not all the way. Not to the extent that I can’t function. I can’t live in a place where I get nothing out of it, and even the suffering is pathetic.

All I want to do is lie down and sleep this life away. Sleep has become like a hobby to me. I still don’t hurt like I thought I would. It’s been days and I still don’t hurt. I’ve gotten past the worst of it, I think. I want to go on indefinitely, see what happens. See if I break. I don’t understand these extremes, but I will use them regardless. Sometimes I like to think I am indestructible, maybe because it seems funny to me: the thing that wants to die is the thing that cannot. I will fail; I always do. But I won’t think about that just now.

A Secret

Don’t you ever just want to be brutally honest? Don’t you ever just want to fucking say it? Say it all?

I have to keep asking myself why that is so difficult, even in a sterile environment like the internet. Something most be wrong with me, because each time I give away a piece of myself to this blog, I agonize over it—for days at times. Can I say it, can I live with it? Even if no one were to read it, can I live with the idea of my innermost demons being ‘out there’?

I can’t explain my own self-loathing, suffice to say that it grows with each passing day, for various reasons. My lack of self control is so vile to me that I feel suffocated, constricted, by this need to punish myself. There is no fate horrible enough, no amount of pain that could even out this score. I will always be awful and disgusting and n0t good enough. I will always be useless and pointless. I will always be a burden to anyone who dare comes into contact with me. I will never stand alone because I am too much of a coward to do so. I chose this for myself. I’m the one that lets it continue. I’m the one who doesn’t change anything, who sits back and whines but makes no move to alter my existence. I am the cause of all of my problems—I take full responsibility for that at least. 

Why was I born, I wonder? Why would someone bother to go to the trouble?

I haven’t had a restful night sleep in days. I feel like a frightened little girl again, running from these monsters, the people I don’t want to remember. My weakness is what I can’t stand. I still have scruples, and somehow that is terribly disappointing. I am not free of this place; I will never be free of it. I can’t just dish out what is deserved and face the consequences without fear. I can’t walk up to my boss, tell her to go fuck herself, then not be concerned about what kind of problems would be caused by it. I can’t call up the shift manager who was rude to my mother on the phone this morning, and say, ”You know what, you talk to her like that again…”.

This is a world of limitations caused by fear of consequences. And I hate it. I hate this world and the people in it, and the way I allow myself for the briefest of instants to imagine that I could possible have a place within it that would ever mean anything or even slightly satisfy me. What is the worst of it, however, is not the people. It’s myself. It’s this person who can see something unsatisfying, yet participate in the game nonetheless, purely from being afraid. Afraid that something is missing, that there is more. What is there, I ask? 

Nothing could possibly be worth the suffering, the torment of getting up in the morning shaking, with tears running down your face while you try to come up with a valid reason to do anything at all besides put a gun to your head or a knife to your wrists.

There is something worthwhile? Oh, is there?

Perhaps that is the biggest lie. Maybe that is just the excuse we use in order to live without guilt and loathing on our conscience.

Endlessly

I would have titled this pain, but that doesn’t seem to suit this feeling. It’s beyond that, I think. Withdrawls? No, I don’t think so. I was like this before those useless little pills.

I want to cut pieces of myself off, all the ones I don’t like. I want to mutilate this shell and see if it touches the inside, see if it makes the hidden parts bleed. I’m so far gone now.

I went to the store and purchased a present for my dad for Christmas. I decided to give it to him today, for various reasons, rather than waiting. It should have made me happy to see him happy, but everything plummeted like a rock in water and there I was starting the cycle all over again. Eating, wanting to kill myself, driving my whole being to breaking point. It seems like any strong emotion is triggering it, this loss of control. I eat, I make my discontent be known on my body. It’s here now, lines of red so plentiful they have begun to blur and nearly 20 pounds of weight that I gained in only about a month’s time. This is me destroying myself and not fighting it. This is me giving into abandon because I know that nothing will make me better.

I know that part of the reason I gave it to him early was because in a way I don’t really believe I will make it to Christmas. It’s too far away and there is too much that can go wrong. I feel it coming. I’ll be on the edge soon enough and I will jump. I have it in me, somewhere, it’s only a matter of finding it now. There’s no reason to fight inevitablity. Soon, soon. I won’t have to be in pain forever, that is the one promise I have made myself. It will stop, even if the answer is in the end of everything.

I don’t mind anymore. It’s alright. There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just me, all alone. It’ll always be that way, and maybe that’s not so terrible. Maybe that’s the only honorable way to go, with nothing to bind, nothing to bring guilt. This is my life and in the end I am the one who has every right to take it. I’ll be damned if I let anyone keep me from what I want, what I need.