life scares me to death.
[disclaimer: this is not a cry for attention. i am *not* going to kill myself. i repeat, i am *not* going to kill myself.]
don't you love it when your mince and cheese pie contains not a single trace of cheese? i'm not quite sure why i'm eating - i'm not particularly hungry. in fact, i was actually thinking about trying to starve myself to death. but then i figured that was still technically suicide, which i think i've convinced myself not to try, and besides, i'd eventually give in to my chocolate cravings - food of the gods, and all that.
i've been meaning to write in this thing for *months*. seriously. but i thought people might think i'm doing it for the wrong reasons. pity's not something i actively seek. i do tend to write entire journal entries in my head, but then when it comes to actually writing them out... well, i get distracted. :P
would you believe that i wet my bed today? yeah, I know I'm 23. it's not like i did it on *purpose*. this is actually the third time i've wet my bed as an adult. the first time i was so ridiculously stoned that i guess i just didn't wake up. the second time i was so ridiculously drunk that i was probably asking for it. today's incident involved a sleeping pill. i woke up this morning in a blurgh mood, lay in bed until "popular" came on, and then decided that since i have nothing to do all day, i may as well just sleep, hence the sleeping pill. about five hours later, i wake up damp. and i even peed before i went to bed!
i did used to wet my bed as a kid, but it's something i outgrew (i can't remember when, but i wasn't *that* young). Drugs aside, bed-wetting is usually stress-related. am i under stress? pfft, when am i not? it's probably all in my head, though. [1]
today's not so bad, i guess. i'm not feeling sad or upset like i did last night (completely out of the blue - gee, glad to see my prozac's doing it's job). i'm feeling more... blurgh. apathetic. hopeless.
and really frustrated. like, i *really* want to break something, or punch something. i don't know why.
Dane, one of our new flatmates, asked me the other day if i thought i was "normal". i probably gave him some stock answer ("normal is subjective", etc). but i was thinking about it later, and i was trying to come up with the reason why i might not be normal, compared to other people. the only thing i could come up with is: i have no will to live. i'm talking about, like, that primal instinct that people have to stay alive. like if someone was drowning, they'd thrash around trying to get to the surface. the example i was thinking of at the time was, say i was in a coma - i wouldn't fight to wake up. i think i would *sprint* down the tunnel towards that white light, that big glowing exit sign that promises no more pain, or guilt, or loneliness, or disappointment.
i don't want to kill myself - i could never do that to my family, and guilt's not something i want to feel for the rest of eternity. i guess i'm just waiting for an excuse to die - car accident, cancer, whatever (although, knowing my luck, i'll die *slowly* and *painfully*).
so what's brought on this whole "woe is me" attitude? take a look out your window. okay, that's probably a little unfair. it's not the world itself, i suppose, but just most of the people in it. okay, that's not really fair either. and not entirely true. i guess it's just me. i'm having one of those "what the fuck am i doing here?" crises. i'm pretty much a waste of skin. and what's my purpose? just what am i supposed to be doing here? i can't *fucking do anything*. i have two real-life friends who see me occasionally, probably for nostalgic value because they can remember that i used to be able to have fun, and be fun, and be funny. my online friends have become mere acquaintances or memories because i can't seem to concentrate long enough to write any of them an email. the person i wanna talk to most right now is gone, because *he* fucking killed himself (and although you've probably guessed by now, yes, i was at least partially responsible for it). but i bring it on myself, right? i'm the one who pushes people away, who loses touch with them. ironically, i do this because i know eventually they'll leave on their own. but that doesn't stop me feeling lonely. so what should i do with all my free time, since i'm not entertaining guests? hmm, let's see... i can read. yeah, that's probably about all i can do (until my attention span runs out, and i'm back at square one). i could get a job, i suppose, if only i could fucking *do* anything. 'cause i can't, really. i have no skills. no one wants to give me a job. and i have no creativity. people who know me would probably say, "hey, you're good at lots of things, like... um... like writing!" really? the last thing i wrote was so bad that i cringe every time i hear the song that it's based on. oh, but that's right, there's "western epic", that brilliant story that me and aubs have been writing for years. it's had rave reviews so far... from the *people the characters are based on*. no offence, aubs, but those books are full of so many in-jokes and plot-holes that there is no way in hell we could ever get it published. i've tried to get people who *aren't* in the book to read it, to no avail. when dylan was reading some of it, he was more concerned about who the characters were based on than what was actually going on. okay, so i can't write. surely i can do other things, like... playing video games! until, again, my attention span wanes, and i need to get more stoned. lego? no, too creative. that's the thing about doing anything creative these days - dylan can always do it better, so why bother? dylan builds a huge, beautiful functioning japanese-style windmill pagoda thing, and i struggle with some tacky spaceship. it's actually gotten to the point now where i'm embarrassed play lego with dylan - i know he wouldn't lie to me, so compliments on my creations are rare (or non-existent). i don't blame him - my creations are juvenile at best and i think he's too embarrassed to try to find something about my creations to be enthusiastic about.
oops. got sidetracked. what was i talking about?
i feel like i'm at the end of my life, as if i won't even see the end of next week. i don't know where this feeling's coming from. could have something to do with the complete feeling of hopelessness and helplessness that i'm feeling right now. i hate myself, i hate my life, but i can't seem to be able to do anything about it. i take pills to fix my head, but all they do is give me heartburn, and an outward feeling of happiness. like, i'm happy on the outside, and i can laugh and joke, but inside, everything's still the same - i'm still nothing, i'm still shit.
i really feel like i need therapy, but it's expensive. my doctor suggested i go to group therapy, 'cause it's cheaper. i don't see how sitting in a group of strangers is going to help my issues communicating with strangers. face your fears? fuck that. how am i supposed to be honest with a therapist about how i feel, in front of a bunch of other people? i don't *care* if they're for the same reason i am. no, in fact, i wouldn't be able to believe that they would be there for the same reason as me, because if they were anything like me, the idea of group therapy would scare them shitless.
dylan's gone out tonight for birthday drinks at suzy's. later, they might be going in to town. *shrug* here i am at home, alone, because socialising tends to give me a stress headache, wishing that i was normal and could interact with other people without wanting to cry or hide or run away. and why am i even writing this? because i have nothing fucking better to do. and i have no one to talk to about this. i know i'm supposed to talk to dylan, but... i dunno, we don't really tend to talk about this sort of stuff much. i wrote him a letter a couple of weeks ago, in much the same vein as this journal entry, and the next day he wrote me a beautiful card that said all the things i needed to hear [2]. One thing he wrote was "i guess i thought everything would be okay as long as we were together", and that makes me feel so bad. everything *should* be okay as long as we're together. i hate that i feel like this, and that i'm not being fair to him. he gives me so much, a hell of a lot more than i give him, and still i'm not happy. i can't talk to him about this, because it's not fair on him. i feel like i'm killing him. when we first got together, he used to be the most optimistic, caring, generous, friendly person, but i feel like i've changed him with my cynicism and my negativity and my whining and my hatred of others. i make snide comments to try to hurt him to make him feel as bad as i'm feeling. or i guilt-trip him when i'm feeling underappreciated by the world. he really deserves better than me, but, selfishly, i can't break up with him, because i don't think i'd be able to get through the day without him.
i think the thing that's scaring me the most right now is that dan, our now-ex-flatmate is going overseas, and so we've lost easy access to pot. and that scares me. for a long time, pot was the only thing that got me out of bed. when i was stoned, *everything* was fun. everything was interesting. and, i'll admit, pot was an excuse. if i had to do something, especially something that might involve interaction with other people, i'd think, "i can't do it now, 'cause i'm stoned! i'll do it later". it was a great procrastination tool. but more importantly than that, i could fool myself into thinking i was having fun. as long as i had pot, i was never bored. but now... i just think, "what's the point?" i always remember reading or hearing people say that you can't get addicted to pot. well... ::waves:: hi. i'm a pot addict. sure, i'm probably not having any body cravings, but my mind... sometimes it's all i can think about.
y'know, it was harder for me to say that than it was to confess that i wet the bed today.
okay, that's it. time's up - my concentration's gone and i've started fidgeting.
[1] unless, of course, that's where stress is *meant* to be. i don't really seem to know much... about anything.
[2] i just re-read it, and now i'm sobbing like a woman. :P
don't you love it when your mince and cheese pie contains not a single trace of cheese? i'm not quite sure why i'm eating - i'm not particularly hungry. in fact, i was actually thinking about trying to starve myself to death. but then i figured that was still technically suicide, which i think i've convinced myself not to try, and besides, i'd eventually give in to my chocolate cravings - food of the gods, and all that.
i've been meaning to write in this thing for *months*. seriously. but i thought people might think i'm doing it for the wrong reasons. pity's not something i actively seek. i do tend to write entire journal entries in my head, but then when it comes to actually writing them out... well, i get distracted. :P
would you believe that i wet my bed today? yeah, I know I'm 23. it's not like i did it on *purpose*. this is actually the third time i've wet my bed as an adult. the first time i was so ridiculously stoned that i guess i just didn't wake up. the second time i was so ridiculously drunk that i was probably asking for it. today's incident involved a sleeping pill. i woke up this morning in a blurgh mood, lay in bed until "popular" came on, and then decided that since i have nothing to do all day, i may as well just sleep, hence the sleeping pill. about five hours later, i wake up damp. and i even peed before i went to bed!
i did used to wet my bed as a kid, but it's something i outgrew (i can't remember when, but i wasn't *that* young). Drugs aside, bed-wetting is usually stress-related. am i under stress? pfft, when am i not? it's probably all in my head, though. [1]
today's not so bad, i guess. i'm not feeling sad or upset like i did last night (completely out of the blue - gee, glad to see my prozac's doing it's job). i'm feeling more... blurgh. apathetic. hopeless.
and really frustrated. like, i *really* want to break something, or punch something. i don't know why.
Dane, one of our new flatmates, asked me the other day if i thought i was "normal". i probably gave him some stock answer ("normal is subjective", etc). but i was thinking about it later, and i was trying to come up with the reason why i might not be normal, compared to other people. the only thing i could come up with is: i have no will to live. i'm talking about, like, that primal instinct that people have to stay alive. like if someone was drowning, they'd thrash around trying to get to the surface. the example i was thinking of at the time was, say i was in a coma - i wouldn't fight to wake up. i think i would *sprint* down the tunnel towards that white light, that big glowing exit sign that promises no more pain, or guilt, or loneliness, or disappointment.
i don't want to kill myself - i could never do that to my family, and guilt's not something i want to feel for the rest of eternity. i guess i'm just waiting for an excuse to die - car accident, cancer, whatever (although, knowing my luck, i'll die *slowly* and *painfully*).
so what's brought on this whole "woe is me" attitude? take a look out your window. okay, that's probably a little unfair. it's not the world itself, i suppose, but just most of the people in it. okay, that's not really fair either. and not entirely true. i guess it's just me. i'm having one of those "what the fuck am i doing here?" crises. i'm pretty much a waste of skin. and what's my purpose? just what am i supposed to be doing here? i can't *fucking do anything*. i have two real-life friends who see me occasionally, probably for nostalgic value because they can remember that i used to be able to have fun, and be fun, and be funny. my online friends have become mere acquaintances or memories because i can't seem to concentrate long enough to write any of them an email. the person i wanna talk to most right now is gone, because *he* fucking killed himself (and although you've probably guessed by now, yes, i was at least partially responsible for it). but i bring it on myself, right? i'm the one who pushes people away, who loses touch with them. ironically, i do this because i know eventually they'll leave on their own. but that doesn't stop me feeling lonely. so what should i do with all my free time, since i'm not entertaining guests? hmm, let's see... i can read. yeah, that's probably about all i can do (until my attention span runs out, and i'm back at square one). i could get a job, i suppose, if only i could fucking *do* anything. 'cause i can't, really. i have no skills. no one wants to give me a job. and i have no creativity. people who know me would probably say, "hey, you're good at lots of things, like... um... like writing!" really? the last thing i wrote was so bad that i cringe every time i hear the song that it's based on. oh, but that's right, there's "western epic", that brilliant story that me and aubs have been writing for years. it's had rave reviews so far... from the *people the characters are based on*. no offence, aubs, but those books are full of so many in-jokes and plot-holes that there is no way in hell we could ever get it published. i've tried to get people who *aren't* in the book to read it, to no avail. when dylan was reading some of it, he was more concerned about who the characters were based on than what was actually going on. okay, so i can't write. surely i can do other things, like... playing video games! until, again, my attention span wanes, and i need to get more stoned. lego? no, too creative. that's the thing about doing anything creative these days - dylan can always do it better, so why bother? dylan builds a huge, beautiful functioning japanese-style windmill pagoda thing, and i struggle with some tacky spaceship. it's actually gotten to the point now where i'm embarrassed play lego with dylan - i know he wouldn't lie to me, so compliments on my creations are rare (or non-existent). i don't blame him - my creations are juvenile at best and i think he's too embarrassed to try to find something about my creations to be enthusiastic about.
oops. got sidetracked. what was i talking about?
i feel like i'm at the end of my life, as if i won't even see the end of next week. i don't know where this feeling's coming from. could have something to do with the complete feeling of hopelessness and helplessness that i'm feeling right now. i hate myself, i hate my life, but i can't seem to be able to do anything about it. i take pills to fix my head, but all they do is give me heartburn, and an outward feeling of happiness. like, i'm happy on the outside, and i can laugh and joke, but inside, everything's still the same - i'm still nothing, i'm still shit.
i really feel like i need therapy, but it's expensive. my doctor suggested i go to group therapy, 'cause it's cheaper. i don't see how sitting in a group of strangers is going to help my issues communicating with strangers. face your fears? fuck that. how am i supposed to be honest with a therapist about how i feel, in front of a bunch of other people? i don't *care* if they're for the same reason i am. no, in fact, i wouldn't be able to believe that they would be there for the same reason as me, because if they were anything like me, the idea of group therapy would scare them shitless.
dylan's gone out tonight for birthday drinks at suzy's. later, they might be going in to town. *shrug* here i am at home, alone, because socialising tends to give me a stress headache, wishing that i was normal and could interact with other people without wanting to cry or hide or run away. and why am i even writing this? because i have nothing fucking better to do. and i have no one to talk to about this. i know i'm supposed to talk to dylan, but... i dunno, we don't really tend to talk about this sort of stuff much. i wrote him a letter a couple of weeks ago, in much the same vein as this journal entry, and the next day he wrote me a beautiful card that said all the things i needed to hear [2]. One thing he wrote was "i guess i thought everything would be okay as long as we were together", and that makes me feel so bad. everything *should* be okay as long as we're together. i hate that i feel like this, and that i'm not being fair to him. he gives me so much, a hell of a lot more than i give him, and still i'm not happy. i can't talk to him about this, because it's not fair on him. i feel like i'm killing him. when we first got together, he used to be the most optimistic, caring, generous, friendly person, but i feel like i've changed him with my cynicism and my negativity and my whining and my hatred of others. i make snide comments to try to hurt him to make him feel as bad as i'm feeling. or i guilt-trip him when i'm feeling underappreciated by the world. he really deserves better than me, but, selfishly, i can't break up with him, because i don't think i'd be able to get through the day without him.
i think the thing that's scaring me the most right now is that dan, our now-ex-flatmate is going overseas, and so we've lost easy access to pot. and that scares me. for a long time, pot was the only thing that got me out of bed. when i was stoned, *everything* was fun. everything was interesting. and, i'll admit, pot was an excuse. if i had to do something, especially something that might involve interaction with other people, i'd think, "i can't do it now, 'cause i'm stoned! i'll do it later". it was a great procrastination tool. but more importantly than that, i could fool myself into thinking i was having fun. as long as i had pot, i was never bored. but now... i just think, "what's the point?" i always remember reading or hearing people say that you can't get addicted to pot. well... ::waves:: hi. i'm a pot addict. sure, i'm probably not having any body cravings, but my mind... sometimes it's all i can think about.
y'know, it was harder for me to say that than it was to confess that i wet the bed today.
okay, that's it. time's up - my concentration's gone and i've started fidgeting.
[1] unless, of course, that's where stress is *meant* to be. i don't really seem to know much... about anything.
[2] i just re-read it, and now i'm sobbing like a woman. :P