(no subject)
Okay. So. It won't be too long until I have to face my doctor, again. Normally it is the most akward thing ever, and all I do is blabber. And I have no idea what I am talking about and yeah. So I was considering writing a really long letter and having him read it, so I didn't forget anything I wanted to say. But I have yet to decide if that is what I want, and if I want him to read it. Well, I did start it. So this is what I have so far.
I was slowly dying. The definition of death is the absence of brain activity. I believe I encompass death in every way except for this one definable aspect. Many times I wish for my physical being to match up with my emotional well-being. Shattered. Gone. Why don't I wish for my well-being to improve? Maybe because I know that my feelings are the truth, and I do not want to deny my feelings. People can say things to me in hopes of changing my mind, but I cannot succumb to the lies. Honesty with myself is all that I have left. Surrounded by dishonest people, one can never learn to trust others. Trust in oneself is the only thing I have. And I know what I think about myself is the truth. I know that imperfections are part of being human, but I cannot help but expect the best from myself. Do not like the feeling of disappointment. I want to slam my head against a wall anytime I mention something to a person. I want to tear at my skin knowing that speaking my thoughts is attention-seeking. This leaves me frustrated with myself. Suck up and pretend that I am not empty day after day, minute after minute. But those few moments that I show a sign of vulnerability, I feel extreme guilt. A burden to others, is that what I am? The question plays over and over in my head, and I fear facing the answer. Many years ago I told myself to stay around knowing that maybe some would be hurt and I could not bear causing pain to others. What if the negatives of me being here outweighs any positive I can bring to others? Can I just accept that? I think I have.
No aspirations. No motivation. I am suprised that I have energy to pick up this pen and write. I have been laying in my bed the last couple months, only to roll out and move myself to the couch for the rest of the day. Going to class is out of the question. Normal tasks are too difficult. Daily reminder to myself that I must eat, and somehow get the strength to make some food. Struggle with this for a couple hours. Electricity bill comes. Two days to open it, two days to seal it, one day to take it to the post office. Rest all day so I can muster energy if somebody needs my help. Fight with a friend or family member? I am there for you. Car broke down and need to be drive to work? I'll be right there. Pass out on the bus and call me at 8 AM to be taken to the hospital? Roll out of bed, I'm racing down the street.
Yet I feel that I am never good enough.
I lay awake at night having extreme anxiety. Sometimes sobbing from 2:00-5:30 AM. Must fight on.
Cry myself to sleep only to cry as I awake, knowing that another day needs to be faced. Remind myself to just breathe.
yeah... I definitely haven't even begun. but we shall see what I decide to do.
I was slowly dying. The definition of death is the absence of brain activity. I believe I encompass death in every way except for this one definable aspect. Many times I wish for my physical being to match up with my emotional well-being. Shattered. Gone. Why don't I wish for my well-being to improve? Maybe because I know that my feelings are the truth, and I do not want to deny my feelings. People can say things to me in hopes of changing my mind, but I cannot succumb to the lies. Honesty with myself is all that I have left. Surrounded by dishonest people, one can never learn to trust others. Trust in oneself is the only thing I have. And I know what I think about myself is the truth. I know that imperfections are part of being human, but I cannot help but expect the best from myself. Do not like the feeling of disappointment. I want to slam my head against a wall anytime I mention something to a person. I want to tear at my skin knowing that speaking my thoughts is attention-seeking. This leaves me frustrated with myself. Suck up and pretend that I am not empty day after day, minute after minute. But those few moments that I show a sign of vulnerability, I feel extreme guilt. A burden to others, is that what I am? The question plays over and over in my head, and I fear facing the answer. Many years ago I told myself to stay around knowing that maybe some would be hurt and I could not bear causing pain to others. What if the negatives of me being here outweighs any positive I can bring to others? Can I just accept that? I think I have.
No aspirations. No motivation. I am suprised that I have energy to pick up this pen and write. I have been laying in my bed the last couple months, only to roll out and move myself to the couch for the rest of the day. Going to class is out of the question. Normal tasks are too difficult. Daily reminder to myself that I must eat, and somehow get the strength to make some food. Struggle with this for a couple hours. Electricity bill comes. Two days to open it, two days to seal it, one day to take it to the post office. Rest all day so I can muster energy if somebody needs my help. Fight with a friend or family member? I am there for you. Car broke down and need to be drive to work? I'll be right there. Pass out on the bus and call me at 8 AM to be taken to the hospital? Roll out of bed, I'm racing down the street.
Yet I feel that I am never good enough.
I lay awake at night having extreme anxiety. Sometimes sobbing from 2:00-5:30 AM. Must fight on.
Cry myself to sleep only to cry as I awake, knowing that another day needs to be faced. Remind myself to just breathe.
yeah... I definitely haven't even begun. but we shall see what I decide to do.