I spent so long grasping at hopes and clutching what I thought was dear to me, that when I opened my hands and found them empty it didn’t kill me.
I know I used to be quite the crybaby when I was young. I wonder where along the line I lost that ability. I wonder when I lost so many things. Wonder who it was then and who writes these things now. Can I say I’ve already died? Something is wearing my past around its neck, and sometimes I think that only the willingness to die rather than be something instead of myself is what keeps it me. Sometimes I think the only thing I can call my own is how much I hate myself for what I’ve seen I’m capable of.
Somehow I can’t cry about any of that.
I find myself telling myself I should. Tearing myself down over and over trying to find a way to. And I wish I could sob. I wish I could vomit blood until I pass out. I wish and I don’t do anything other than tell myself that the wishing itself is supposed to be important. I try to find what I once had to live for and find myself settling for attempting to recall a time I didn’t think I was going to kill myself and I can’t even do that without saying that the desire to be dead is what I irrevocably have. What is mine and myself and what I want to throw away so willingly. And I’m theoretically sickened by that because I can’t bring myself to actually feel anything about it.
I think that I don’t think there is any question of whether I’ll kill myself. I KNOW that nothingness is far preferable to emptiness.
What I can say without circles or obfuscation is that this can’t go on.
I’ve tried to say more, I’ve WANTED to, but I don’t know what a plastic person can offer that isn’t plastic.
I have a job, a home, health, food, shelter, the necessities. My coworkers like me, my family cares about me, my friends mean the world to me. Somehow it makes me feel even worse about myself, more of an ingrate, more worthless, more hopeless.
Actually, if I only had a single word I might use “eclectic”
The inescapable THING that haunts the deepest recesses of your mind.
Funny how it happens. Things happen, new sights, new people, new interactions glimpsed, and something changes and find something new in your own insights or how you viewed something. I want to believe that’s hopeful. Well…Thanks
I can keep pretending we’re one.
Wondering what to think in order to fall asleep. Can’t tell if everything is lost in cacophony or if there isn’t anything to begin with. Both are worrying. Vacillating between wanting quiet and dreading it.
I suppose there are thing I want stopped and things I want ended, and neither thought yields any comfort. I’m not even sure this is comforting, it’s just something.
I’m trying to think more than just that.
Over and over and over and over