More difficulties…to be expected, I guess.

I didn’t sleep incredibly well, but I did get rest, which is the most important part. My stomach is no better, and my thoughts are still on things they shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t expect things to suddenly be better overnight. It will take time, and I am just going to have to be patient and accept that, even if I hate it.

My godmother is taking me shopping today. We’ll have to see how I do. I haven’t eaten since breakfast yesterday, so needless to say that hasn’t really helped me feel less sick. Even the thought or smell of food makes me want to stand over a garbage can. I’m just glad I managed to force something down yesterday, even if it was almost nothing. That is some accomplishment. I’m still breathing, right? I’m glad that I can write all of this out, it lifts a huge weight off of my shoulders.

I forget sometimes how much emotion (or lack of) can affect me physically. I’m so used to burying it all under layers of lies that it is strange to me when the layers come off and leave me vulnerable. I feel so dead inside.

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Suffering.

Today is the worst it has ever been. I can’t function. I was up the entire night because I couldn’t sleep. My head got hot and feverish, my stomach twisted into terrible knots that made me double over. I was so sick that I was afraid to get up because I might vomit. My head pounded for hours, and I kept rolling over in bed. I was covered in blankets yet I couldn’t stop shaking. I was so cold….

It was a hundred times worse than having the flu. It was so bad…I honestly am surprised I made it through the night without giving in. So much mental pain that it was crippling. I’d take torture over it, I’d take physical agony over what I felt in my head.

There’s been a shift. A serious change inside of me, of who I am…. I’m so tired I haven’t figured out what it is yet. I was so exhausted mentally that I literally had my eyes closed and was drifting in a partial sleep while sitting up, yet I could never quite get there. I finally, at 7:00 in the morning, managed to get myself to stand and walk to the other end of the house to get something to knock me out. And it did—thankfully.

I wake up a few hours later, and the feeling comes right back again. It took everything I had to just force myself to calm down. I still wasn’t calm, just…sedated…. At first I thought it was a mental breakdown, that I was freaking out. But I don’t know. I just know that it was one of the most horrible experiences of my life. It’s been hours and hours since then, but I can still feel that coiled up snake in my gut. I feel ill, like I just vomited half the night or something. The thoughts just won’t stop. For some reason, I can’t turn them off, can’t brush them aside. I’m trapped in a body and a mind that want to inflict pain, non stop, extreme pain. It’s punishment for weakness, and it won’t stop until it thinks I’ve had enough. I just wish it would stop right now.

I took more Nyquil for right now so that I can just go to sleep and not feel any of it. My godparents came over and I had to put up my entire “I’m perfectly fine, I’m not depressed or insane in the least” face. They came over at the most terrible time possible. I smiled and laughed, all the while that little snake inching its way around my stomach, gnawing at my insides mercilessly. I almost didn’t make it home. I cut off everything, each feeling, each thought, so that no one would suspect a thing. I kept it up for five hours before I couldn’t take it anymore. They took my slumped shoulders and glassy eyes for tiredness, which is somewhat true. I just stared off at the river, watched its power as it leaned over trees with its pressure, bending them to its will. I want control, that strength. I can feel it boiling, keeping me alive with its acidity. The burning that reminds me I’m still breathing.

I don’t want to think. I don’t want to feel. Can it get worse? Probably. This is an extreme, and under its weight I’ll only last so long. I want more than anything to wake up as my typical numb self tomorrow, with no concern for anything. That’s why all I plan to do is go to sleep. And when I wake up, I’ll pick up the medicine bottle and take some more. And then…I’ll sleep again.

A failure at everything? Is that even possible?

Sometimes I stand back and look at how little I’ve done, and I am…sickened. That cold embrace of self-hate and constant disappointment is enough to make my heart feel constricted and start beating out of rhythm. It hurts. Sometimes I wish someone would just cut out my heart and eat it in front of me…take away what little suffering I can feel. But I know there is no one to do such a thing, or anyone to even notice how I’ve disconnected myself from almost everything. I’m too good at hiding it now.

Am I a failure at everything? I don’t know anymore. I am a failure at life, considering I have no reason to live it besides an overwhelming boredom to try and satiate. That is no reason to live, just because one has nothing better to do. I am supposed to be happy that for some reason I am in existence, yet I am hateful of my own breathing, hateful of being created.

In every way I seem to be a disappointment, not only to myself, but to my parents. I shouldn’t care what they think, but their interpretation of my worth reflects my own…justifies it, so to speak. It means I am not crazy, that these terrible things I think…are…true. I was never smart enough, never good enough. I never tried hard enough. I watched the world go by through a window, and never ventured outside for myself. I had no desire. No will. Everything means nothing to me, has no consequence. I am the disgusting disappointment, the money pit where all the hard work burned and wasted away…. I am not worth the time, the money, the sweat. You should have worked hard for somebody else…anybody else, because I will take from you and never give back.

When I think of myself there is this song that always pops into my head, and eats away at me…at my weaknesses. It epitomizes everything I think about myself, how I seem to be two-sided, always working against myself. The part that remembers what it is to be human, and the more darker part that recalls how much I fucking hate it.

The Darkness

Pieces of the song “The Undertaker” by Puscifer

“Thank you for making me
Feel like I am guilty
Making it easier to murder your sweet memory

But now I know
So you will not get away with it again
I’m distant in those hollow eyes
For I have reached my end

Before I go, tell me,
Were you ever who you claimed yourself to be?
Either way,
I must say goodbye
You’re dead to me.”

The annoying dog.

I’m pretty fed up with him. It’s getting to the point where I hate the fact that he’s still breathing. I’m a bit strange about animals, and though I said I wanted to be a vet when I was a child, I know now although I care for animals, there are some—just like certain people—that the world would be a better place…without.

Dogs are a species that I can barely tolerate. Animal racism if you will. The sniffing of asses, crotches, shit, and every other imaginable thing—not for me. My cat may use his tongue for toilet paper, but at least he doesn’t try to share his siliva with my mouth. I think that’s what I hate most about dogs, the accursed licking. My cat licks me, sure, his little attempt to groom me, but he refrains from licking my face unless he is trying to seek revenge by licking and then biting my chin for some minor indesgression (such as giving him too tight a hug). That I can handle, but Malcolm, the dog, goes STRAIGHT for the mouth. This is after he was just outside, his nose all over the nice present some random dog left in the yard, or after he finished grooming his undercarriage for five minutes. No thanks. No really, no thanks.

Mal

I don’t care if he’s cute, I don’t care if he has big eyes and a misproportioned head…cuteness does not buy my affection. Actually, pretty much nothing but evilness does, but that’s beside the point. The fact that everyone LOVES him on sight is…well…disgusting. It’s like how people treat other people: according to their looks. Just because it’s cute doesn’t mean that it is sweet or loving.

What problems do I have? The fact that he’s stupid. I honestly am beginning to question whether or not he even knows what his name is. I won’t judge an animal for being a little dim-witted, there’s nothing wrong with that, but this dog…. I say Malcolm ten times and he continues to lay on the floor. The only way he’ll come to me is if I’m near the door. What’s strange about this is that he is like a shadow, won’t leave your side for hardly anything, yet he doesn’t come when you call him…hmmm…. He’s not deaf either, he can hear just fine. My cat comes running to me if I call him any assortment of nicknames (i.e. Fatboy, Fatso, Say-Say, Kitty, Cat, Bastard), yet that damn dog won’t come for “Mal” or “Malcolm”. I just don’t get it. Salem (the cat) even knows what “stop stalking the dog” means. And then the other thing. Potty trained? No, more like “mills around outside”. The mosquitoes are terrible, yet Dad takes the dog out every night, sometimes with NO result. He won’t even pee sometimes. And the other day after we took him out, he got flustered by the ferret (who by the way, officially refuses to take shit from the dog anymore) and pissed on the floor. He’s a wuss. Can’t take anything. I’m used to the excessively mean, don’t-take-shit-from-anybody chihuahuas I had when I was young. They didn’t like, you they bit.

The lino in the bathroom is slowly being destroyed as well. He rips it up again and again in a bid for freedom. He stays in there until I get up to let him out, he has food, water, toys, and bedding, yet does nothing but sit by the door digging at the lino and WHINING. He doesn’t eat until AFTER I let him out. The tape we keep applying to the doorway to keep the lino down he tears up into tiny pieces, even after we attempted to foil him by coating it with hot sauce (yes we really did, because we got sick of fixing it, and it getting worse and worse). Then when I DO let him out, all he does is sit on the rug by the door for hours on end. How exactly that is different from being in the bathroom is beyond me.

He’s not that bad of a dog (believe me, we’ve had some terrors…I don’t even want to think about it…), but I am already sick to death of taking care of him. He’s useless, dumb, and too clingly. He climbs all over me like I’m a moutain, and has to be in contact with your body if you’re sitting on the couch or lying down. I get that I’m supposed to like that he likes people, but I don’t. I’m an incredibly unaffectionate person…I don’t like being touched or hugged or kissed by any animals (human beings included). My wonderful hangups…but anyway, it’s like my mom in dog form (probably why he’s HER dog). I payed for him. Bought him for her because I knew she was lonely. I’m not exactly pleasant company all of the time, I know, so I figured the dog would help, but all of the problems he causes, especially with the cat (he tried to bully the cat in his first weeks here, and now Salem HATES him, and attacks on sight) make me regret my choice sometimes.

Yes, I realize that I whine and bitch about stupid things. And I don’t have problems and blah blah blah, but I have to vent it, or else it will just keep irritating me to an extreme. I have no respect for tiny little dogs who think they’re rottweilers, yet won’t even stand up to a cat. I guess that’s what I hate about him; he reflects weakness. And I despise weakness. He’s like all of those people I hate: submissive and codependent. It’s highly unfortunate that I’m stuck as sole caretaker for the next few weeks, if not month. *grumble*

Bad and guilty or indulgent and carefree? Maybe just…stupid.

If you were expecting me to confess something…better look elsewhere. Draw what you will from it; it makes little difference to me whether your assumptions are correct or…faulty. And yes, I’m aware that my poetry is far from good, but honestly…who gives a fuck. I have to write the crap down somewhere.

So many temptations, so little time….
Indulgence or compulsion, it’s damn hard to tell
I won’t concern myself, but I won’t be a fool
Ignorance is not truly bliss
I’ve done things that cannot be undone
But I don’t regret
Sins aren’t so terrible; indulge in them while you can
I say to goddamned hell with the rest
You’re going to die worthless anyway.
————————————

Mostly, thoughts are just stupidity not spoken aloud
Brainless assumptions, meaningless words abound
The world of waste, that is the human brain
Luckily intelligence cannot be feigned
Your questions are foolish, your conclusions…highly debatable
Meaning: of comprehensive thought you are not at all able….

No country for old men? No, there isn’t.

altiar

It’s sort of funny how I often find myself relating to the previous generations rather than my own. I’ve noticed that when I sit down in class—if I’m forced to pick a seat next to someone that is—I gravitate toward the people who are more my parents age than my own. They feel…less threatening. I understand them better, where they’re coming from. When I sit next to a 20 year old I feel like I have little to nothing in common with them. They’re almost alien to me. Perhaps this is just a byproduct of being an only child who lives with her 45 year old parents. I don’t have siblings or friends, so naturally the people I’ve learned the best and relate to the most, aren’t the same age as me.

It’s strange to think, but I have the feeling that were I born of a different time, I would have had an easier time of it. What I see now, it is of little interest to me. Technology is fun, to be sure, but honestly I think I would have been much more pleased without it. The texting, the constant gabbing on the cell phones, it grates on my nerves, irritates me to no end. I’d miss videogames though, but I guess if I didn’t know that they had ever existed there wouldn’t be a problem. This stupid way of living life as though it’s some game show to find the best companion as fast as possible…. Don’t get me wrong even the older generations are full of complete idiots who did the same thing. Humans have been and will always be stupid, far more than any other animal. But the fact is, with each passing decade what they are brainwashed to believe in is altered ever-so-slightly. I just like what they used to be brainwashed to believe. Like dying when it comes. Not struggling. Accepting fate. Not getting Chemo because you’ve already lived a long enough life, that sort of mentality. That is something I find…almost…endearing.  

What was, is no longer. There is no going anywhere without someone knowing about it. Sort of like that entry I deleted a few weeks ago yet recently discovered on a website, picture and all, somehow pulled from the grave of electronic deletion, a deletion…that is never complete. It’s a sorry state, to say the least, for someone as paranoid about it all as I am. I want no fences, no leash. Let me free of this virus….

My brain is stuck in the past. Hell, even the way I do things is old fashioned, the way I think, all of it. I’m not stuck in “go, go, go” mode, instead I just watch lazily from my anarchist armchair waiting for The Fall of Man. Maybe that is what keeps me breathing sometimes—that desire to watch everyone I’ve ever hated, everyone I’ve ever cared for, get their heads handed back to them on a glistening silver platter. I want to watch them fail. They always thought that they were so superior to me, yet I am the one who is at least attempting to make some sort of life, while they whore themselves out to their array of boyfriends. I win. And it’ll just keep getting better. They’ll degrade even more as time wears on. It’s a great thing, time. It will wear on me too, but I won’t fight it, I’ll revel in it. The older you get the more you learn. If I make it long enough maybe I won’t turn out to be a complete idiot after all.

Wouldn’t that be something?

Imagine that, it almost sounds like optimism, doesn’t it?

Almost…

Waiting.

Damien and the crosses

My whole life I’ve always been constantly waiting, never doing. I waited to finish grade school, I waited to finish junior high, all so I could get to highschool. When I finished that it wasn’t near over; now I wait to finish college, then move on to a job, and whatever comes after that. We are only given so many years, yet each of us wastes them, loses them without even a slight fight. I wonder how that feels to people who enjoy their lives. Do they regret never doing what they want, or are they stupid and accept their fate? Maybe to them it is all part of the journey…to me it is just another reminder that this life was not for me.

Some people enjoy schooling because they get to be with their friends. Perhaps that is what it is, I don’t enjoy the journey because I don’t enjoy the people. Every single day is like a war, and for some reason I’ve been on a winning streak. You’ll know when I lose, because I’ll be dead. I’ll have waved the white flag of surrender and drenched it in red. Then I’ll crumple and fall. The earth will take what’s left, the ground will satiate its thirst. At least then I will do some good, serve purpose: feed what is still living.

I’m frustrated more than anything, angry that I can stomach up the drive to do what needs to be done. I wait for the feeling to rise in my chest, that familiar ache, that lets me know I’ve tortured myself too far by suffering through life. I want just a shred of feeling. Anything. Give me pain, give me agony, give me rage, sorrow, happiness, hate, just anything. Kill the nothing. Murder it. Rip it out and eat it. Make it feel what I feel.

I want my beliefs back. I’m tired of waiting, of living life as others tell me. I don’t want to waste another 3 years of my life doing something that I hate. Getting up on school days and hoping that we’ll crash on the way there so that I won’t have to go, or so that I’ll just fucking die and not have to worry about getting the drive to do it myself. 

Fuck it, I’m going to go ride my quad for a few hours and stop droning on about how much I hate my life. I’m sick of my own bitching. There better be gas.