Like a portal through time

There’s this room here. Old photos are on the walls, even furniture, all from my childhood. It even has a similar smell, like that house scent of some place lived in where you walk in and you can almost sense the life lived between the walls. Everything is a lie though, painted over in sunflowers and filled with some kind of old regret and sadness. Maybe that’s something I brought with me. I’m not really sure.

I feel depressed here. It’s out in the flatlands, in this geographical blip of a place that’s entirely forgettable other than the cold and snow. You breathe outside and it feels frigid. Hurts almost. And I know it’s not just the cold, or the harsh winds that like to tear through the dying grass and the old, dilapidated houses. It looks like some place the apocalypse had its way with. Now all that’s left behind are husks and broken windows.

They’re both here, my parents. It’s like they never separated and I’m 12 again and we’re playing house. They even act it all out. So eager to please one another. I watch with a vacant expression. I stare out the window and feel my mind wander somewhere without me. I’m just looking. I’m just here, except I’m not. I don’t want to live that life over, but this house is like a fucking time warp that I just walked into, unknowingly. It makes sense now why she hasn’t let go, even after all this time. She’s living in the past every day in this house. It’s even in the kitchen with the bowls from the old house and the occasional knickknack collecting dust on the shelves.

There are even old blankets and photos of me everywhere. But none of him. Like she left him out to make a statement, except everything is his anyway. He’s there, in the movies on the shelves, in the bits of furniture he made. It’s like she didn’t want anyone to see, but I see it plainly, without difficulty. It’s lies, all those things she said, pretending to care. She doesn’t care. She doesn’t believe me. She still loves him. And all I can think of is knowing that I know what his dick looks like just as well as she does, and that every time he brushes past me, my skin crawls and I feel like the bile in my stomach is going to melt all the way down, down to my feet, where it will make a puddle and disintegrate the wooden floor below me. Like the acid blood from Alien. Drip drip drip.

But it’s not that bad, she says. I wouldn’t know what it’s really like. Oh, but wouldn’t I? I just don’t speak it aloud, don’t type it out. Because I can’t. It’s stuck in my throat or in my hands, where my fingers won’t extend to press into the keys. The words died a long time ago. They’re just pictures now, playing in a loop, a slideshow that’s playing on the screen in my mind all this time. I’m tense, but it’s easy to hide. I have made away with secrets for a lifetime.

This place feels like some kind of museum; a monument to something I’m not quite understanding. Maybe it will make more sense tomorrow. Fuck, I don’t know.

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Quiet

I think i probably spend too much time alone. It’s easier though than having to bother with others. And the truth is, my tolerance has become intolerant. I find myself grinding my teeth every time someone else speaks. They ruin a silence, the gap in conversation where my brain can sort things into some kind of cohesive mess that’s slightly more appealing and understandable.

My friend interrupts me now. Every time I pick up my phone to text, she immediately flings a bunch of questions my direction so I can’t type without long pauses. She’s jealous, I suppose. It’s strange to see. I tire of her attention seeking. She mentioned recently that she hoped we would crash into the bottom of the ravine while we were driving. She said that at least that way we would have more trauma to talk to with our therapist. I’m not sure what to say to that, not even now. And at the time, I said nothing.

She’s slipping further and further into her lies and I watch with lackluster interest. I told our therapist that I was sick of her constant stories with their changes. Every week it’s the same story with altered details, precariously placed in some kind of effort to intrigue me. She has told me she fears getting boring to me. She’s been listening to different music and constantly makes jokes about how “when we’re married” or “when we’re rich”, we’re gonna do _______. I’m not even sure where to go with it. I’ve discouraged her, but it makes little difference.

Then she told me the other day that she wanted me to tell her what I remembered from her doctor’s visit the other day because she “sometimes gets ideas and then thinks of them as part of the memory/story”. In other words, she knowingly lies.

This sudden insight into her own behavior is peculiar; she tends toward ignorance, willful and not. She’s never been particularly self-aware, if anything she has a strong proclivity for bragging and exaggeration. It just so happens that the previous week, I had a conversation with our therapist about her lying, then of course she suddenly says this.

I know for a fact that he (therapist) uses my words for her therapy. She has told me things he’s told her, and I have to stifle a laugh when I realize he’s feeding her my concerns. This should maybe be a warning sign of his untrustworthiness, but somehow I appreciate it. It’s been making my life easier.

I’ve grown tired of company. My current situation is frustrating at times. I find myself away more often than not. I go off by myself for hours and I don’t look back.

24

Maybe if I cared I’d make some attempt to pick up the pieces. Mostly I’m just angry and confused. I don’t want to go to work, and honestly, the only alternative that goes through my head is blowing it off. Wrapping a towel around my head and pulling the trigger. But then I think about who’d find me (my mother) and it makes me hesitant. A woman at work has walked in on two family members through the course of her life. Both with self-inflicted gunshot wounds. She tells me she’ll never get over it. I don’t want that to be the last memory she has of me, but I’m also tired of restraining myself when it comes to this. I’ve almost overdosed a few times, late at night, when I’m all alone. What do you do, really? How am I supposed to handle these thoughts in any way besides the way that was intended?

I’m not living for much of anything, maybe just out of habit. And loving someone else hasn’t changed anything—yet another thing I suspected and came true. Even being held and talked to changed nothing, because at night I’d wake up and get out of bed, and sit in the bathroom trying to rock myself to sleep. Maybe it all means nothing, because whatever monster was there is still there and isn’t going to let go anytime soon. I feel like I’m so damaged that nothing can be done for me anymore. I think even if I had constant attention I’d grow weary of it until I’d forsake it completely. I could be lying; I’m not sure anymore. Maybe it’s just being left behind that makes me bitter.

I don’t want to go to work. All I think of is hurting myself, if only to avoid work, to avoid life, to avoid having to do any of this anymore. I’m living for everyone else and it’s not enough, and it won’t ever be enough. I’m not sure where I plan on going with this, only that I’m afraid. What if I fail, and I live? Can I deal with that? Would I be strong enough to finish what I started?

When there is no escape….

I took my medication during midday, like I usually do, without giving it much thought. It hit me so horribly today, without any warning. The worst part was it stuck right before I left for work. I did damage before I left, but the mood continued to grow. By four hours into my shift I was bordering on unstable, and lucky me, I was closing tonight.

I hate this. I hate to say it. But I refuse to be such a coward about it. I did it, therefore I should be able to talk about it without turning into a mess. I locked myself in one of the stalls during my half hour lunch, in a panic. I didn’t have a knife, so I took a credit card and reopened what I’d done earlier. If I would have had a knife with me, I don’t know what I would have done, honestly. I have cuts over cuts now, this horrible pattern that keeps getting more complicated.

When I was done I walked out into the gas station, bought a couple of candy bars, then went to the front counter at work and had an ice cream, two double cheeseburgers,  two sets of fries, then a mocha and a bag of cookies later on, after already having eaten at home. It’s really pathetic how I try to feel better this way. I find myself laughing, sitting in the dark in the break room, almost half hysterical.

I said to one of the girls today, “Life is beautiful”, and she answered, “Maybe someone else’s, but not mine.” Ah, the truth. Where is this beautiful life? Who owns it, I wonder?

I was the only one in the back for closing, because we got the shipment tonight. Everyone was pissed off about it and empathetic, trying to tell me how to get things done the fastest. I don’t care anymore. I don’t care that It’s 2:00 in the morning and I just got home and at 8:00 AM I’ll be back in there for another 9 hours. I hate my life, I don’t care. It doesn’t matter where it goes or if it is horrible, because I don’t matter. Oh well. That’s just how I’m looking at it lately. It’s the only way I can deal with it, because if I try to believe it is something worthwhile that makes this so much more unbearable due to how easily I allow myself to waste it all.

One of the girls from the front was kind enough to help me out with some things, and we got to leave before the rest, which was nice. I could still be in there right now.

I’m home, for now.

Concerns

Ah, the Pepto Bismol pink. Now I’m just making fun of myself.

I got the appointment rescheduled for Wednesday with a physician’s assistant I’ve never met. I’m not sure what to expect, but I know that my mother forgot to mention that I refuse to go through any kind of physical examination, so I’m going to have to talk to them when I get there and hope for the best.

I don’t want to do a blood workup either, but with the depression medication I’m going to be asking for, they might require it. That I will consent to, even though there are plenty of things that could go wrong with it. My eating habits for one. I know my body is completely fucked off at present and I am taking diet pills among other things, and I have no idea if they would require a general blood test or what. Last time I went in I had to get virtually everything done as part of the yearly check-up, but this time I want to try and skip over all of it if possible. I’ve done some really stupid things and I would prefer to get by without having to deal with consequences for any of it. Yes, I know, world of consequence. But I have gotten by before, and I plan to this time. I don’t want to think about the getting weighed part either, but that is the least of my troubles.

I already made the decision that if a physical ends up being something I can’t get out of, I’ll simply leave. I’m an adult and I can do as I please. That includes walking out. They can’t force me to do anything. This is going to be on my terms this time. If I hadn’t been such an idiot this wouldn’t be a problem. I’m not even shy, and if it was any other time I really wouldn’t care less. But I’m so worried I’ve even been anxious about it, though it’s days away. I don’t even know if I will be able to go at all. I haven’t gotten my work schedule yet, and I will cancel if it conflicts, as dumb as that sounds. I haven’t been getting any hours because all we’re doing is cleaning, prepping the restaurant for opening. And the last two weeks before that I didn’t get good hours either because the other place I was at wasn’t getting enough business. They had to keep sending us home early since the earnings were well into the negatives. Everything is just at a bad time. Fucking timing.

I’m going to try not to stress myself out with any of it. I’m already feeling slightly better today, probably because I didn’t spend the entire day eating away my misery. I’m still ill, but not like I was, fortunately. I just have to get back to the old routine and I will forget about this for awhile. I won’t feel like every second that passes is me dying.

I can get better, I just have to try. I can make it to Wednesday.

Nothing changes, not when you don’t want it to.

I’m out of control, I know that. I’ve stopped caring. I’ve crossed some barrier I wasn’t supposed to cross, and now there’s nothing but apathy. But now it is tinged with something new. The scent of death is everywhere. I can smell it on myself, clinging to my clothes, my hair. I can feel the weakness in my body, the way it doesn’t respond like it should be. Nothing feels good, it all feels like nothing. I’m breathing but I am so barely alive, it seems. I keep saying this because I don’t know how to explain how bad it has gotten. It is far beyond what I feel mentally capable of dealing with. So I’ve been letting go, slipping further and further.

 Is there no fight left? It dies out some days, and I think it will never again return to me. I lay in bed in misery, watching the light through the black curtains. Watching another day pass and knowing that tomorrow will likely be no different.

I’ll be brutally honest. Food is keeping me alive right now. I’m focusing on it so intently, that it keeps me from other things. I’m playing games with myself because I don’t know what else to do. I don’t know how else I can continue to go on. Everything is incredibly wrong.

I never wanted this. I never meant for this. I hate myself so deeply I wonder at times why I’m not gone yet. How could I not be? What is so fucking wrong with me? Why can’t I convince myself to get better? 

No one knows. I can’t say anything. I won’t let my last shred of dignity die out before I do. I won’t. That is the one thing I refuse to let happen.

Catatonic

Sometimes I think it would be best if I simply slept until death. Dreams can be haunting, but you can always rest assured that they aren’t real. The worst things imaginable can happen, but the truth is, they didn’t. You wake up and no one is dead, and your life wasn’t ruined by some freak accident. You can breathe in the relief, feel the way the ache in your chest recedes so it may come back at the appropriate time. Yes, that’s right, it wasn’t real. Then again, sometimes it all feels…not real.

When you’re numb, you’ll have these occasions where it takes over you to the point that it becomes physical. You’ll stare at something interesting, or maybe even nothing, then realize that it has been a half an hour. The passage of time means nothing; it’s inconsequential. And when you sleep…nothing makes sense anymore. It all blurs together, and those dreams really are real, because they’re all you’ve got to cling to in this toned-down, survival-of-the-stupidest, pointless existence.

You wake up and find yourself suddenly feeling something. A burning, seething rage. Maybe even hatred, if you’re fortunate. You end up pissed off. You ask yourself why that misery couldn’t be real. Why couldn’t that horrible shit happen to you, just to push you over the edge, just to torture you like you know you deserve? At least it would be something. At least it would be real.

If only life was real. Maybe then I wouldn’t keep willing it to be over.

ManfredvonRichthofen