I'm going to try this again.
For days I've been starting and stopping an entry. The words get too stupid and I get too self conscious.
I am too well aware of my writing and how it looks, how it reads. lately journalling for me hasn't been the catharsis it once was. What's inside isn't pretty, the grammar is atrocious, the words jumbled and not entirely sensical. But if I don't do it at some point I'm going to blow up.
I'm angry. I've been in a silent rage for weeks. I can feel it in my throat, at the back of my neck, I can feel it seething and writhing like a living thing just under my skin. Day by day it just gets worse.
I have no outlet. I have no recourse. I can't physically push myself the way I used to. Cutting is alluring in a surface way. I have cut and have found it helpful in the past but right now I don't think it'll help. The real desire and need for that sort of thing just isn't here. I write and it doesn't help. The words are like thimblefulls of water from a sinking ship.
The ghosts that inhabit my psyche are restless. I open my mouth thinking I want to reach out and say, 'Hey I'm not ok.' But the words are just not there. There is no outlet.
I haven't let anyone else front because I know if I go inside it'll get worse far quicker. At least out front it's a slow burn rather than a flash fire.
I'm tired of this.
There are so many things that I'm angry about, that I'm dissapointed in, that I'm hurt by. I feel raw yet hard as stone.
I hold myself entirely responsible for how I'm feeling. I own it. I just don't know what to do with it.
Scream? Wither? Ignore it?
That line from what I think is an Alanis Morrisette song keeps playing through my head, "Fun to watch the stoic squirm".
If I believed in any Gods I would pray for just a little peace. I'll settle for silence.
I am too well aware of my writing and how it looks, how it reads. lately journalling for me hasn't been the catharsis it once was. What's inside isn't pretty, the grammar is atrocious, the words jumbled and not entirely sensical. But if I don't do it at some point I'm going to blow up.
I'm angry. I've been in a silent rage for weeks. I can feel it in my throat, at the back of my neck, I can feel it seething and writhing like a living thing just under my skin. Day by day it just gets worse.
I have no outlet. I have no recourse. I can't physically push myself the way I used to. Cutting is alluring in a surface way. I have cut and have found it helpful in the past but right now I don't think it'll help. The real desire and need for that sort of thing just isn't here. I write and it doesn't help. The words are like thimblefulls of water from a sinking ship.
The ghosts that inhabit my psyche are restless. I open my mouth thinking I want to reach out and say, 'Hey I'm not ok.' But the words are just not there. There is no outlet.
I haven't let anyone else front because I know if I go inside it'll get worse far quicker. At least out front it's a slow burn rather than a flash fire.
I'm tired of this.
There are so many things that I'm angry about, that I'm dissapointed in, that I'm hurt by. I feel raw yet hard as stone.
I hold myself entirely responsible for how I'm feeling. I own it. I just don't know what to do with it.
Scream? Wither? Ignore it?
That line from what I think is an Alanis Morrisette song keeps playing through my head, "Fun to watch the stoic squirm".
If I believed in any Gods I would pray for just a little peace. I'll settle for silence.