I couldn’t write today. I’ve been trying—I’ve got three pathetic pages of this novel done, and it’s been sitting there for days on my desktop to remind me that I need to get to it. So naturally I ignored it. I’ve been working on a painting, which I dedicated a good amount of my day to. Unfortunately, my boyfriend brought my friend home right in the middle of it, and it’s not exactly anything I want people to see. I stuffed it in the closet and threw my paintbrushes under the coffee table like a fucking alcoholic hiding the booze. I mean, what else would I do, right? Sometimes I amaze myself.
We watched some show and I dyed her hair. It was a good, normal kind of night. I cooked, as usual. I’ve been doing that more and more. Somehow the process of making it helps. It’s good to focus on something since I’m so everywhere all the time. I just can’t seem to sit down and do one thing. I’ll pick up a book and read a few pages, get distracted and start sorting through things on my computer five minutes later. Then that gets dull and I’m painting or attempting to play a videogame. I realize I need exercise, and it might help, but I’ve been feeling weak and shitty and can’t seem to get myself to do it. I’m not eating enough to do it as it is. I know that’s why I’m feeling so tired lately, even more so than usual. I just feel really fucking stupid. I’m not sure what the point of any of this is. I think I’m just angry with myself for what I feel is a failure. I know it’s punishment, but I can’t seem to stop. I’ve thrown myself back into this hole because I don’t know anything else. I don’t want to be like before, but things were so different then. I was okay with this, somehow. I had even less than I do now, and I was living. It hurt, it fucking sucked, and yes, I certainly was a whiny little bitch, but there was something in me that felt empowered from embracing my own bullshit and taking it for what it is. This is reality, no matter what people might tell me. I fucking get it, really. I’m just not as strong as I used to be. I’m different now. I can handle what I couldn’t before, but now what I had previously mastered eludes me. The grass certainly isn’t always greener.
I spent hours on that painting. I went to put a protective coat of paint on it, and it bled all over. Every line I spent perfecting, is now a splattered mess. I wanted to take it and break the wood in fucking half, but I didn’t. In fact, now I’m not the least bit concerned about it. It’s gone somewhere else, stored away. I can’t even fucking feel anything. How am I supposed to do anything when I’m that way? Does nothing have consequence? I wish it meant I could do anything, but instead it means I stagnate. I don’t want anything. Nothing makes a shit bit of difference, not really.
I want to be angry. I want to do something about it, but everything is so far away. I don’t know what that means. I don’t know why my mind feels it’s necessary to go into this protective mode, but it keeps coming back. At the slightest disappointment, everything glazes over and loses focus. It means nothing, the voice says. You fret for nothing.
I want to force it, and maybe I will. There has to be a way. It’s not ‘pop a pill and be free’. Nothing is that easy. I know I need to challenge myself, force myself. It’s the only way anything is ever going to get done. It’s the only way I’m ever going to get to a point where I can tolerate this and make it livable.