(no subject)
I am at my lowest point in recent memory. I am also having significant trouble typing, but that may or may not be related.
It feels like words should be pouring out of me and into this entry, but I am finding myself at a loss for what to say. This is a problem, because I was hoping for this to be a release.
I think that I am lucky to be alive. A significant amount of my willpower was expended on the way home to keep me from swerving into oncoming traffic or running that red light. Part of me wanted so desperately to do it. Even if I didn't die, my life would be drastically and permanently changed by one little twitch of the steering wheel. Yet another part intervened. Another part of me said "No!" I don't like this. I hate this.
I feel divided. I feel ugly. I feel horrible. I feel cruel. I feel masochistic. I feel disgusting. I feel suicidal.
Part of me hates me for writing this, for crying out like this. It smacks of attention whoring. The fact that I need to tell someone is just so - I can't find the word, but "overwhelmingly" is close enough - pathetic. I want to cut. I can't cut, because I would be letting Cecily down. If I let her down, I would lose her. I need her. I want to cry.
I feel like such a drama queen, publicity whore. I feel like I'm baring my soul for all who read this to pick apart. Typing this leaves an impression of dirtiness. I'm violating myself, or allowing myself to be violated, by typing this. Feel free to fuck my emotions.
This is pretty much the best stream-of-consciousness writing I've done in a while. This would be a great passage in a story for showing the disjointed thought process of one truly fucked-up character. Except that the disjointed thought process is mine.
I wish I could call her, but I can't. She's with Alison. I had my time with her. I know that she's available, that she would talk to me if she had to, but it's not the same. She's not choosing to. I think I have to face this alone. No, I do have to face this alone.
I punched my TV screen. It hurt my knuckle. It still hurts, even after ten minutes. I held back, though. At the very end, I slowed down. This makes me angry. It's so symbolic of the lack of self-control I suffer from. That's what this all boils down to: I can't control myself. My emotions, my imperfections, even my fucking muscles! All governed by something else. All governed by something beyond me. Why can't I choose to break my hand, if I want to? It's my hand. I'm not hurting anyone else. I want to smash, cut, kill, destroy. Myself. But I won't let myself. I cannot be allowed to.
It feels like words should be pouring out of me and into this entry, but I am finding myself at a loss for what to say. This is a problem, because I was hoping for this to be a release.
I think that I am lucky to be alive. A significant amount of my willpower was expended on the way home to keep me from swerving into oncoming traffic or running that red light. Part of me wanted so desperately to do it. Even if I didn't die, my life would be drastically and permanently changed by one little twitch of the steering wheel. Yet another part intervened. Another part of me said "No!" I don't like this. I hate this.
I feel divided. I feel ugly. I feel horrible. I feel cruel. I feel masochistic. I feel disgusting. I feel suicidal.
Part of me hates me for writing this, for crying out like this. It smacks of attention whoring. The fact that I need to tell someone is just so - I can't find the word, but "overwhelmingly" is close enough - pathetic. I want to cut. I can't cut, because I would be letting Cecily down. If I let her down, I would lose her. I need her. I want to cry.
I feel like such a drama queen, publicity whore. I feel like I'm baring my soul for all who read this to pick apart. Typing this leaves an impression of dirtiness. I'm violating myself, or allowing myself to be violated, by typing this. Feel free to fuck my emotions.
This is pretty much the best stream-of-consciousness writing I've done in a while. This would be a great passage in a story for showing the disjointed thought process of one truly fucked-up character. Except that the disjointed thought process is mine.
I wish I could call her, but I can't. She's with Alison. I had my time with her. I know that she's available, that she would talk to me if she had to, but it's not the same. She's not choosing to. I think I have to face this alone. No, I do have to face this alone.
I punched my TV screen. It hurt my knuckle. It still hurts, even after ten minutes. I held back, though. At the very end, I slowed down. This makes me angry. It's so symbolic of the lack of self-control I suffer from. That's what this all boils down to: I can't control myself. My emotions, my imperfections, even my fucking muscles! All governed by something else. All governed by something beyond me. Why can't I choose to break my hand, if I want to? It's my hand. I'm not hurting anyone else. I want to smash, cut, kill, destroy. Myself. But I won't let myself. I cannot be allowed to.