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.

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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

It doesn’t take a mirror to really see….

My self loathing is at an all-time high. I seem more disgusting than usual, in all departments. Even my thoughts are more childlike and underdeveloped than they generally are. I can’t say what I want to say without feeling as though I’ve fallen incredibly short of my original intentions.

I’ve been…bad lately. I have no self control. It’s like a fucking game, yoyoing around insanely until something snaps and I have to face the inescapable damage. I’m having these episodes. It’s ridiculous. I want to strangle myself with one of the electrical cords. 

I’m preparing for death, that’s the trend. It must be. I’m thinking I’m going to die and I go into a right fucking panic, trying to get ready, to let go. I always eat when I feel like shit, so there it is. Refraining is not even a vanity thing. it’s a I want some fucking control thing. No matter how much I lose I will always still find something to point at and be grossed out by because I am everything I never wanted. Everything about me is somehow displeasing. I can’t sit back and think, “here are the things that are nice about me”. Instead all I can do is pick at every imperfection until I’m a bloody mess and all the farther from whatever ideal I’m trying to adhere to and become. All there is to torture anymore is a body. The head is long since dead. There’s no soul to shred anymore. I’ve ripped it apart time and time again, leaving it in frayed, ugly ribbons. You can only relive your most vulnerable, pathetic moments so many times when you are numb. Eventually you reach the point where your reaction is to blink dumbly, utterly unaffected, uninterested, which leaves you forced to move onto something else that will ellicit a reaction. 

It frustrates me that I can’t cause suffering in the way I want it. I want to push until there is no more pushing to be done, I don’t want to sit back in idleness and wait for the world to do it for me. Why should they deliver the death blow? Why should it be their strike that is the final crippling hit? Why can it not be my own? Why can my weapon not be the spear that is the beginning of the end?

I believe it can be, but that it would take more effort than I am currently willing to draw out of myself.

I just don’t have it in me. Yet another failure in my faulty design.