Aug 17, 2007 14:46
i am full of everything. i think i am going to be ill. i break down at least once every month. i break down, literally. at night i cry and i scream into my pillow and i want to kill myself. if i do it right, it is usually only a week with the crying and the screaming and all the secret time that i spend in my bed, late at night, completely alone. if i do it right, i don't kill myself, i think about it every couple of hours, different ways to do it, not too grotesque, but beautiful, kind of like a story. nobody ever knows and i never tell them. once i mentioned to my mother that i thought it was healthy, every week, to think of killing yourself at least once a day, and to also think about living, and love and literature, and mr.brooks and perseverance and strength, and courage, and how all the mean people don't matter. i told her it balances us out. she got upset when i said that. she told me she would kill me if i ever killed myself. i laughed. i think she meant that she would kill herself if i ever did. my mom doesn't have much. she is so beautiful and she has her three beautiful daughters and when i stop to think about how selfish pain is, it hurts. because when i do get my fits i want to leave for myself, not to end, but to numb, and to be alone, where no one, not even myself can hurt me. there is a big part of me that agrees that i am half mentally ill. i have never really thought about it before, but i had to. this month they have been a lot worse and i know that it isn't normal by standard, that a million people aren't crying themselves to sleep each night for reasons they can't explain. emotion stirs in me, like a stomach ache and i vomit all night long. the rest of the month i don't cry one lick, i am happy, tranquil, the lover and the loved, i feel friendship and compatibility with the world and i. i won't ever kill myself, i know that i am not death and that if i were my skin would be a lot deeper and you would be able to see it in my eyes. and i am no thief, i would not steal his job, but that thought, that moment, when the thought of dying calms me, is eerie. it doesn't frighten me, my tremors are more from cruelty and ignorance. death frightens me when i think of others killing me, murdering me or others. it is something so deep, that i think that i am a murderer of my own life, but i do it with tears and fear and pain. i kind of like it too. i like that i can see all of that emotion, i can feel it twirling around me, peaceful until i decide to break, because it isn't the pain, it's me. i can handle it, but not well, not in late nights, when the fan is cold and my feet are colder, or late nights when the fan won't work and my body is warm, unconsoled. i share the night with myself, and i feel sometimes that we weep together.