Each time I start to write something, a wave of pain hits me, or my thoughts turn into scrambled eggs.
I’m not sure how to go on now. Everything I thought I knew about myself has been muddled, and not pleasantly like a piece of mint for a Mojito.
I hate using this space to bitch and moan about how unfair life is. I knew this fact as early as 5 years old, when I was stabbed in the cheek with a stubby pencil by a nasty little fucker in nursery school.
I hid under the table.
Yeah, life is unfair and full of sucky things.
I don’t want to be that person, the one who looks at the world with shit covered lenses. I want to be as happy as I can be under my circumstances. My closest friends and family worry about my mental state, and urge me to go back to the crazy place if I feel the need.
No amount of DBT and craft time will change the fact that I am always in pain. This is where my depression has taken root, and it feeds off of my inability to have a normal, functional life.
I know myself well enough in that regard. I want to live this time around, I just don’t know how.
As usual, I shut down when I get like this. I really don’t like to chat with anyone, or talk about much of anything. I always feel as though I need to be alone with this monster, and that no one truly understands just how frightened I am.
I sense hollowness so often now, when some friends say they are sorry for my loss. I can’t help but bristle a little when I feel like I am being put off with a cliché. No one likes a Debbie Downer, and it’s easy to get off of the hook with a thoughtless response to my honesty.
Sometimes, I need more than that, and I won’t beg for it.
On the other side of the coin, I am unable for the sake of my health to be pulled into other people’s drama. I am finished with this. If this makes me a bad person, then so be it. My tank is at full capacity.
I give back what I get.
I have seen this floating about recently, and I have been repeating it to myself all week, in between epic naps and rounds of vicodin and marijuana.