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.


Inner hate.

I’m so fucking sick of this, of myself. I can’t do anything, I can’t get out of this. I’m too weak to do it and I don’t understand. It hurts so much to live I don’t know why I am doing it. I feel sometimes like this is just a slow torture that grows worse and worse as time drags on. I almost can’t bear it anymore. What is wrong with me? Why do I have to be so fucked up in the head?

I finally weighed myself. It was bad. When I got home there was a huge pie on the counter. Yeah, way to help me diet, huh? Of course I ate some, then a bunch more shit afterward when I thought about how fucking useless it all is anyway. What does it matter if I destroy this body, cut it up, burn it, beat it, eat until I vomit continuously? I’m going to die anyway, so in the end it doesn’t really matter.

I’d forgotten how much I hate days off. I’m going crazy here, in this house. I have nothing to do but pace and eat. I said I wouldn’t binge, but of course, I did. I’ve been doing it nearly every day now, even at work. I can’t stop, and it makes me furious. I hurt, and there’s nothing to soothe that. Eating doesn’t do it, but nonetheless it is a temporary stress reliever. Afterward I feel so terrible I don’t even want to move. I want to punish myself, but I don’t know how to do it to the extent that I need it. Some petty blood isn’t going to help; I want more than that.

When I lay down to sleep everything aches. I find myself constantly eating sugar so I won’t feel so listless. It’s too much, probably, working. How pathetic. I’m already tired of keeping up this horrid mask. I’m sick of trying to seem happy all the time, when I know what I was doing only minutes before clocking back in.

It’s grown into a ritual, all of it. It’s sick, and wrong, so wrong. And I can’t care. What does it matter? It’s all going to scar. I’m afraid of it, in a sense, yet at the same time it seems so childlike to me, not nearly enough. From my knee to my groin is a mess of crossing lines. When I look down and it is starting to lose that ridge-like quality of something fresh, I feel this revulsion with myself. Like, ‘how could you let it heal?’. How could you? It’s calming sitting in the breakroom leaning into the wall, feeling my black pants sticking to me. I’ve had people walk by and ask me if I’m alright, and all I want to say is, “I’m just fine now.”

How can this last? I can’t keep going much longer. I grow bolder and bolder, and soon I will be good enough, I will be ready. I don’t know if I should be angry about that. I want to scream for how much I want out of this, how I wish and wish over and over that something awful would happen to me and I wouldn’t have to face this any longer. I’ve been too weak lately to take my own life. I can’t find that resolve; it’s buried beneath my inner exhaustion. But it has to come back, it must. It always does. And I want it. I want it back. I can’t do this, I just can’t. Please let me die.

I hate myself so fucking much sometimes. Lately it has been even worse. All I want to do is take something and tear myself apart with it. I feel so weak and useless. How can I be this way? How can I keep doing this when I know it is all wrong?

I haven’t had any withdrawl symptoms yet, thankfully, though we will see. I’m my same depressed self, and all I want to do is die.

Today I wanted to suffer, so I did. Over and over. And it still isn’t enough. It’s never enough. The urge to hurt seems stronger now than anything. I am blinded by it at times.

I want this to stop. I just want it to all fucking stop. I can’t. I really can’t do this.


My night was plagued by nightmares. One stands out the most.

I’m at my old house. It must be fall, because the ground is covered in leaves. There’s a wetness too, as though it only just rained, leaving everything soggy and wet. I’m outside for some reason, walking up the hill toward the goat pen. I keep thinking that I’ll open the gate to the fire road and go up the path. I never go up there; it’s dangerous without a gun, but nonetheless I am compelled to go.

Then I see it. Something black, off in the brush. It’s tall, that is all that I catch. I am instantly afraid. The fear that I rarely experience, comes over me. I get that strange prickling at my temples and I start to breathe heavily.

What the fuck was it? Did something get loose? An animal maybe?

Somehow I know that it is no animal. I had been watching horror films all night and though they never effect me, in the dream I instantly want to use them as an explanation for why I am suddenly shaking.

Did I really see something?

I can stand it no longer, and I run, all the way down that steep, red slope, nearly slipping on all the wet leaves. Then I’m on the gravel, going toward the house. I look back. Nothing there.

When I reach the cement, I calm a little, slowing down. I’m huffing, choking on the cold air. It’s been so long since I ran. I wait. I watch. I keep thinking something is going to come down the hill. It’s going to get me. It’s going to kill me. It’s going to tear out my heart and eat it, and oh god I’m not going to be able to stop it. It’s going to eat me. I’m going to die with that fucking thing eating my goddamn entrails, and it’s going to be smiling its monster smile.

I can’t take it. I turn away again and rush over to the door, rip it open so that it creaks irritably on its hinges, then slam it behind me. I lock the chain first, then everything else. And that stupid door. Stupid fucking door. Every winter it expands, and fits even more illy into its frame. There’s a crack that lets the light in. The thing…. It’s going to get in, that is all I can think.

Seconds pass, and I move through the tiny house, venturing finally to my parents’ window, where I get a view of the two sheds and the wide, gravel-covered driveway. By this time I am trying to convince myself that it was nothing. I’m imagining things. I’ve been alone too long and now I am making things up. That’s it. It’s all just me being an idiot. I’m stupid and that’s all there is to it.

But I can’t tear my gaze from the window. I know its there. Maybe it isn’t real, but it’s there, in my head, lurking around the shop outside. It’s going to come get me. It’s going to break the fucking window in and come get me. I back away from the glass, fearful suddenly.

I’m making it up. I must be making it up. There’s no monster. Who could possibly believe in such a thing? No monster. There is no monster. Nope. Just me, all alone in the house, spending too much time watching a bunch of shit too late at night. Need to lay off the movies.

But I can’t get it out of my head, and I start to pace the brown carpet.

It’s coming, and it’s going to get me. It’s going to eat my heart right out and I’m going to die feeling it.

I end up at the window again. I stare for the longest time. Seconds. Minutes. Nothing changes. The thought of where the cat might be makes me frantic, and I stupidly search around the room for him.

Where did he go? What if the thing got him?

But I can’t leave the window. I can’t.

Then I see it. Something black moving by the shed.

What I hated about this dream was how powerless I felt. I couldn’t do anything. In most ‘monster’ dreams I end up with a shotgun or some object to smack the shit out of it with. But not in this dream. It was all wrong. I was weak and alone and pathetic, resigned to dying. I didn’t pull myself from the dream. Why is that?

I woke up feeling afraid.


I feel like I’ve been walking in darkness and finally a light was switched on for the briefest instant. That one flicker and a mirror was revealed to me. I saw myself. I’m beginning to think it happened in a dream. I’ve had so many that I can only just recall lately. I’ll be doing something and suddenly that little television in my head will click on for a moment and I’ll have a feeling. Something’s changed. I know what it is, to be honest.

Words can be like a knife. They can make you or break you. They can encourage or send you into despair, and are at the mercy of mood.

My father used to always say to me that to see the future you must learn the past. “Read your history,” he used to advise. To understand ourselves I believe we must first look to where we came from. The most startling thing to me, is that I see now what I only suspected before. I see it now more clearly than ever: I am my father, whether I like it or not. He used to do this, what I’m doing. He used to work and work and never be home. He would sleep so early, that I recall having fits about it as a child. He eats and eats, rarely ceasing, and he hardly ever leaves the house for any reason besides buying groceries. He’s jealous to a fault, moody, depressing, has very low self-esteem, and now I’m beginning to believe, is as suicidal as I am.

 I hate him at times, and my trust of him is extremely limited. There’s something a little too animal about him that I don’t like. I see it when he drinks, and it concerns me. I see that same thing in me, but the scary thing is that it does not take the drink to bring it out. I’m much less restrained, and I guess that it is likely because I am young. Given time, maybe I would be smarter about it. Maybe I would not do so many terrible things when I believe no one to be looking.

There is something needy and weak in me that I will not speak of. It’s there, thwarting every damn step of progress I make. I deny it. I deny myself. I don’t believe we have to be what instinct tells us to be. I believe we can be what our head tells us we should be. We can overcome anything, any flaw in our design if only we choose to use that power. If I did not want to be depressed, perhaps I could stop it. Yes, I will forever be leaned toward it, bent in that direction, but if I fought it enough, maybe I could overpower it, mask it, at the very least. But I don’t. I no longer try, and maybe that is because I have seen doom, I have seen death, and I like what it has to offer me. It holds in its fold all that I have never had. Rest. Peace. Chaos denied. Life snuffed out.

The answer is there. I found it before, I was only sidetracked. And back to the path I go. Alone, always alone. We must do what we must do. In the end it is not ourselves that must be denied, but those who would dare pretend to hold sway over us.

I am not my father if I so choose. I am not anyone at all but who I wish to be. I see a future of darkness and much more misery to come, and I see myself sitting in the dark surrounded by half-empty bottles and broken furniture. I am nothing but hate and temper and loneliness. Apart they are nothing. Together I see them as a key to salvation. I can be free of this prison, or I can take this cell and reside within it, make it my own.

What does it matter, really? I have been this way so many times before. I get down this path and it becomes too dreary, so I turn back. I get frightened. I don’t like the person I see. Some kind of dark, apathetic thing that looks at death and laughs and scorns anything that would value its existence. That person is only terrible because others have told me she is.

The truth is of my choosing. The way this goes is up to me. And if I should decide to go how I see myself as almost destined, my will won’t be denied.


Today was a test of sanity. I hit every peak and low point in the spectrum. In the morning I was giddy, to the point that it was disturbing to me. I kept laughing and I have no idea why. One of the women I work with thought it was the funniest thing, but I didn’t find it so hilarious. The giggling was almost painful.

 An hour later I was searching for anything sharp. I found out where they store the box cutter and made a trip to the freezer on the pretense of using it to open some hard-to-reach box. I took it with me on my ten. I washed it in the sink in the bathroom in preparation. When I think of it now, it frightens me how bold I was about it. What if someone had walked in? I was daydreaming of slitting my wrists and hiding them in my shirt until I got outside. The highway is right by the store. I could walk out and get hit by one of the semis that pass through. It’s insane, thinking things like that. One second laughing, the next planning out an entire scenario in my head. There is a safety cover on that box cutter that can’t be removed, unless of course I were to snap it off.. That is the only reason I didn’t get to do the damage I wanted. In a fit of frustration, I ended up getting to do nothing, and had to walk back and devise a way to put it back without it seeming odd. Wonderfully enough, there are security cameras throughout the grill area.

I dealt with my parents and godparents when I got home. We went out to eat and all of that. I didn’t enjoy myself, instead counting down the minutes until it was over and I could binge without being studied like a specimen. I also didn’t sleep (even though I got almost none last night) during their visit, which was only due to my mother insisting that I spend time with them for at least one day. I sat there thinking about raiding the pantry the whole time, ignoring the clenching cramps in my gut that descend all the way into the upper parts of my legs. Don’t you love birth control?

The second my godparents walked out the door, I grabbed a bowl of cereal. Like a mirror image, so did my dad. He split a banana in half and automatically slivered part of it into my cereal. We even used the same milk, the soy milk instead of the regular milk, and the same sort of cereal. We both picked a round bowl instead of the flatter bowls. Small spoon, not the large one. I forget how much alike we are about things. It’s almost scary at times. I only noticed when I looked over.

Everyone keeps talking. I am so tired of talking. There was once a time when my voice cracked in the afternoon from the constant disuse. I walked into my room with my cereal, avoiding my mother’s chatting. I sat down in front of my laptop to turn my wireless card on again, and in she comes, the blathering unceasing. I get up and walk back out without saying a word. She hangs up my sweatshirt then follows me into the kitchen. The assesment of the night’s events and my godmother’s behavior continue. I slam the bowl onto the island so that they cling together loudly, as though the porcelain will crack.

It was only then that she understood. Even then, as I sat there crunching mindlessly, she talks to herself as she opens the refrigerator, then throws her little tantrum as my dad walks back inside. I ignore the conflict.

Here I rest. Here I may be. In silence, if only for the shortest of whiles.