I mistakenly got excited–not a lot, but enough to allow me to become disappointed when everything fell through and nothing turned out how I thought I would. I do not get excited very often. I loathe excitement and people who feel it a little too often for my tastes. They are more liable to get their hopes up, as well, which would make me feel bad for them, which would then just make me feel bad in general. Anyway, I went home for Thanksgiving break from college and for some reason thought that I would feel better, that being around my family would make me happy since I love them so much. Well, it fuckin’ didn’t. I’m no good around people. I’m too introverted, even with my family. I’d rather be isolated from everyone than have to deal with their lives and problems (since typically they are too tragic for me to comprehend). And they were such jerks to me. I felt sick for nearly the entire vacation, and literally none of them gave a shit. And yet I expected them to when I should’ve known that they only really care about themselves. Which I totally understand, since I really only care about myself and my own well-being as well. I did not cry once this entire break, though, which is good. I thought I was going to cry today after I engaged in too much overlapping dialogue with various family members and started to freak out a little bit, but I held out and persevered. (I do wish they would not talk to me so much, I do not understand why they cannot sense that I dislike talking/being around people for extended periods of time.) This vacation was just the worst thing ever. Winter break is soon, too, so I’ll have to be home an entire month before the spring semester. I have no clue how I’ll survive in this house, I am sure that I am getting signals from everywhere that my end is near! At least at college I have no friends and am only minimally interactive with people who I can just pretend to care about. No muss, no fuss. Here, there are very real feelings attached to every aspect of my existence and I feel myself ripping apart whenever they are mean to me, which is usually. It’s so childish to find my family members sometimes cruel to me, but I have no other words for it. Especially given the fact that I was sick and they still made me do stupid bullshit for them and made fun of me. I don’t make fun of them. They make me tired–people. I can’t stand to be around you guys for more than an hour or two. After that, I get so lethargic and wish to fall into a deep sleep just to get away from you all. As soon as you leave, though, I’m so fucking alert and I’ve got immense amounts of energy that I can’t sleep and have to violently pace in order to expend it all. I hate it, I hate the contrast between my two states. I hate what you people do to me!
I am also kind of mad that I’ve not cut myself because I wanted to maybe be free of cutting for like 3 weeks to a month before coming home, but there is no point. Nobody knows anyway, and nobody can really find out unless I mess up and don’t cover it up (unlikely) or somehow leave evidence of it laying around. Cutting is nothing. A flesh wound that is nothing compared to the pain that my soul feels simply by existing and experiencing other human suffering. It helps me deal. God. I really have no reason to keep living and yet I do, and yet, and yet, and yet. I hear a baby crying and I wish someone would snuff it out. I do not like its parents and the child will most likely end up as big a failure as them, a moral disappointment to humanity. I need some sort of fucking release from this reality, and I need to get back to my warped reality that I have at college (one where I am not fine, but am not suffering as badly and can further process my philosophical and moral ideologies about suicide, since I am still slightly conflicted about some facets of acting on what I believe to be rational determinations on the subject. Oh well. Only other suicidal/suicidally ideative people (since I personally do not consider myself to be suicidal, nor will I until I am actively formulating a plan or acquiring necessary materials to complete it) will understand my rational. For some reason, suicide never makes sense to some people. And yet to me (and yet, and yet, and yet) it is the only thing that I understand, the only truth I know in my life.
i always write too much and i never say anything new.