Climbing the walls

I put my hand through my bathroom mirror about an hour ago.  I caught a glimpse of myself and just had to punch me in the face.  My hand is a bloody, mangled mess that I have wrapped up in a dirty dishcloth and some electrical tape right now.  I have to say i felt better for a brief moment though.

All I do now is pace back and forth, re-imagining old conversations if I had said something different.  Wondering what I could have done to make things something else.  Every few seconds I just scream as loud as I can because the futility and pathetic emotional masterbation of this makes my physically ill.  I’ve thrown up twice in as many days.  I’m not an eating-disorder person I just keep getting so worked up that I start hyperventelating and end up wretching in the sink.

One of my roommates is home now so i can’t even scream.  If I go out there I will have to lie about what happened to the mirror and my hand.  I can’t do anything yet, I can’t go until something happens first.  Petty as this sounds, my grandfather is dying (slowly as shit I might add) and I need for him to be dead first.  I can just picture that smug fucking smile on his face if he lived to hear that I killed myself.  Being a shitstain of a human being really does wonders for your health it seems; the sonofabitch has been lingering on for weeks now.

There is a ton of shit I need to do before i waste myself but I’m completely fucking paralized.  I wanted to finish writing something–though why I can’t even imagine.  No one will ever read it if I do and the first book took five years to do, not a couple of weeks.  I’m hideously dyslexic so reading and writing are painfully slow processes for me. They told my mother, when I was five, that I would never learn to read or write at all it was so acute.  Spite and ennui were my only real motivations for trying to be a writer.  It was enough to carry me through learning how to get around my disability but i see now it’s drained me of anything to say or the discipline i need to sustain it through the tortureous process of making it happen.

I am just a raging ball of frustration right now.  I don’t know how I can get through the next five minutes, let alone the next hour, let alone the next day, let alone the one after that, let alone the one after that, let alone the one after that, let alone the one after that, let alone the one after that.  I keep having anxiety attacks and I hope, every time, that my body just can’t handle it anymore and i end up having a heart attack.  i keep shaking like i’m going through detox and it  hurts every time i take a breath.

FUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFUCKFCUKFKU!xx1!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!1

i’m going to try and sneak out the back and go for a walk.  Its a long walk to the highway but there are always trucks.  Maybe I could make it look like it was an accident.