miserable, miserable, miserable, and rubbing doesn't help.
dear diary,
this is going to be one of the most pointless, most irritating, most emo posts ever, so don't read it. it's for me, not you. self-loathing is go. okay? thanks.
there's always so much i want to say. as open as i have become with those i trust, i still hold at least 80% of my thoughts and feelings back, especially lately, especially with the people who matter the most. i don't even know why i'm writing here tonight (probably because i can't sleep) because it's not like i'm actually going to say anything of value. it's not like i'm really going to tell those of you reading this what's going on. even if i did, it wouldn't make a difference. there's nothing i can do to make things alright.
saturday night was one of the worst nights i've had in a while. well, the worst night since the night i got drunk and took those pills anyway. well, and since the night last week when you and i had our little talk about giving up. those nights were pretty bad too. i also don't think you can count tonight out of the running, though it is occurring after saturday night. let's just say though, for the sake of argument and because it's true, that tonight is a bad night.
so why am i having all these bad nights? why am i self-destructing again? why am i relying on alcohol and pills? why do i hate myself so much right now that i put myself in very real physical danger? why is it getting harder and harder to tell that sad little voice in my head to fuck the hell off?
the answers to these and many other questions lie in my sick and twisted little mind, and, right now, i don't feel like getting into it. you don't want to go there anyway. it is a silly place. i know the answers. i know why this is happening. i know why i'm acting out like this. and i also know where it's going. i know what's going to happen to me if i keep behaving the way i am. but i don't care. i don't give a shit. (if i did, you'd be the first person i gave it to.) but i guess that's part of the problem too. cause if i gave a flying fuck about myself, i'd be on hold on the emergency help line at kaiser psychiatry right now instead of typing this bullshit.
so... what does one do with oneself when one doesn't exactly want to die and yet no longer cares to live? seems obvious, right? one does pretty much what i've been doing. at least i'm on track with one thing in my life.
i don't like feeling this way. i don't think anyone in their right mind would suggest that. this emptiness, this hopelessness, it's all far too familiar. i'm twelve again, and the world is a big, cruel place, a place i don't belong. i wasn't in control then. i thought years of therapy had taught me a thing or two, and yet, here i am in the same place: out of control and out of ideas. i should start rocking my old look (mary janes, baby doll dresses, and ripped stockings) again to celebrate. you could just see the scars on my legs peeking out from under my skirt. i was so tragically tortured then. i guess i haven't changed as much as i thought i had.
saturday night, i went out with the sole purpose of getting drunk. when i unexpectedly ran into some perfectly nice acquaintances of mine and had the chance to salvage the evening, i chose not to. i chose to be anti-social and drink some more on the outskirts of the group, not really talking to anybody. i could have vanished or burst into flames, and no one would have been the wiser. and that wasn't their fault. it was mine. i deliberately alienated myself from them. why? because i didn't go out to hang out with them. i went out to try to kill some brain cells in the hope of making myself too dumb to feel this pain.
not to toot my own horn (though i seem to be the only one willing to do so lately), but it's hard to be smart. it's hard to be sensitive. it's hard to be older than your years. i've been called a genius before on more than a handful of occasions. now, i don't think that's true. i'm not a genius. anyone who reads this journal will attest to that. but, at the same time, there is something different about me. i notice things that other people don't. i feel things very deeply that seem to pass other people by. somehow, i just know things. i know that sounds crazy, and you must all think that i'm deluded in addition to being depressed. maybe i am, but this is how i feel. i feel like i know things on an intuitive level that most people will never even think about their whole lives. i don't know how i know all of these things. i just do. i feel like i think more than other people. that doesn't mean i'm smarter than they are. i'm not trying to say that at all. but maybe i'm more in touch with something... maybe i'm more aware. this isn't always a good thing. sure, it makes me a great listener. it means that i'm usually able to give really good advice, even if i haven't experienced a particular situation myself. it means i'm a good person to have around, if for no other reason than i can make poultices and get imaginary bugs out of ears. i'm damned good in an emergency, whether it be literal or figurative. but it's also exhausting. and painful. and extremely lonely. and i don't know if i can do it anymore.
you see, i've been this way my whole life. even as a child, my parents knew there was something different about me. i never really had friends. i had imaginary stories that i would act out in my head. i lived almost entirely in my own thoughts. i had a few teachers who thought i was autistic when i was in preschool. they thought that because i never talked to anyone. they thought it was because i couldn't. the real reason was that i wouldn't. my parents had some doctors test me. i'm perfectly normal. if there is anything abnormal about me it's that i usually score very high on iq tests and other standardized tests. i could be in mensa if i applied. if i thought that would make any difference whatsoever. but with this gift comes a burden. imagine never being able to turn it off. imagine never being able to watch television or see a silly movie or read a book or listen to a song without analyzing it critically and thinking of all the different hidden meanings, not to mention the personal connotations it holds for you. imagine never being able to have a conversation without your mind going off in twenty different directions at once thinking about possibilities that are tangential or completely unrelated as often as they are pertinent. imagine never being able to have sex without your mind wandering through philosophical debates and current events and whether or not you turned the iron off (and imagine having to lie about that to the people you love the most). imagine never being able to stop seeing images and telling stories and wondering and remembering. imagine never being able to relax. imagine never being able to sleep. imagine never being able to do anything without this noise, without this intrusion. imagine never being able to not think.
this is a disease. it is not normal. it is not healthy. there are lots of people who do those things i mentioned some of the time. but the ones who do it all of the time are miserable. simply living day to day is a harrowing struggle. trust me on that one.
let me add as a side note here that there are many people on my friends list (not to mention my friends in real life) who are brilliant and sensitive and wise and wonderful. you know who you are. i am not trying to slight you or claim that i am better than you are. far from it. i am different, but i am hardly better. if i were better, i would not be so sad. life would be easier for me. no, no. i am not better. i am unhealthy. and besides, if i did not value your intelligence, you would not be my friends. that is one of the most important qualities that i look for in the people i choose to have around me.
there are also people reading this who will identify with my problems because they experience the same things. you, too, know who you are. again, i make no claim of superiority. my blessing/ curse is no better or worse than yours. you will understand more than anyone else possibly could what i am going through right now, how difficult everything can be, and how tired i am.
but back to the point (i know it's in there somewhere). i'm exhausted. i'm tired of fighting. i'm tired of trying and always failing. i'm tired of being alone (there is no place more lonely than your own mind, and that's where i am most of the time). so i drink and take muscle relaxants in the hope of gaining the ability to turn this off. i have been fighting this my whole life, and i just don't know if i can do it anymore. i have been the good daughter, the good friend, the good girlfriend, the good human being. i have always tried, and i feel that, for the most part, i have succeeded. but it has brought me a lot of pain. the people i care about the most always end up hurting me the most. and i can't stop feeling that hurt. i carry it around with me everywhere i go. i can't let go or move on. i'm still hurting from things that happened to me eighteen years ago. over the years, it has only grown. like the remains of an ancient civilization, layer upon layer has been added until i am left with a jumbled mass of broken stone and twisted metal. it's cold and ugly and, above all, dangerous. one false step and the whole thing could collapse. i'm tired of this weight. i'm also tired of the burden that i know this weight puts on the people around me. i wonder sometimes why so few people genuinely want to be my friend, but it makes perfect sense. it's damned hard to be my friend. it's frustrating and frightening and depressing to know that there's always this cold, dead mass under the surface that could rear it's head at any time. and i suppose it must be hard too, for those who are aware enough to realize it, that anyone who has any meaningful place in my life at all is destined to contribute to this mass. it is the way of the world. if i love you, you will hurt me at some time or another, and you will thus add another layer of brick and garbage and dust. (this is not to say that i don't hurt other people. i do. all the time. but we're talking about me here, fuckers, so back off.)
everybody likes strong people because they never ask for help. they never demand anything for themselves. rather, they give and give until you think they can't possibly have anything left, but then they give some more. well, just because you're strong doesn't mean you don't need help. and just because you don't ask doesn't mean you don't have needs. i have needs. i have a lot to give, but nobody wants it. and i'm not as strong as i seem. inside, i'm still that girl in the black ripped tights hiding the scars but secretly hoping someone will notice and understand.
so yeah. i guess this is a cry for help if i ever read one. but, at the same time, i'm not expecting anything from any of you. i'll figure this out. i always do. so don't worry. no need to call. i will ask for help when i'm ready. and, just in case you were concerned, i'll still be around in one way or another the next time you need someone who understands.
love and other perishables,
erin
daily reading of the lyrical gospel: tell me, baby, tell me. are you still on the stoop watching the windows close? i've not seen seen you lately on the street, by the beach, or places we used to go. i've a picture of you on our favorite day by the seaside. there's a bird stealing bread that i brought out from under my nose. tell me, baby, tell me. does his company make light of a rainy day? how i've missed you lately and the way we would speak and all that we wouldn't say. do his hands in your hair feel a lot like a thing you believe in or a bit like a bird stealing bread out from under your nose? tell me, baby, tell me. do you carry the words around like a key or change? i've been thinking lately of a night on the stoop and all that we wouldn't say. if i see you again on the street, by the beach, in the evening, will you fly like a bird stealing bread out from under my nose? (iron and wine- bird stealing bread)
last night, i dreamt that somebody loved me. no hope, no harm, just another false alarm. last night, i felt real arms around me. no hope, no harm, just another false alarm. so tell me how long before the last one? and tell me how long before the right one? the story is old- I KNOW- but it goes on. the story is old- I KNOW- but it goes on. oh, goes on and on. oh, goes on and on. (the smiths- last night i dreamt that somebody loved me)
dearest jane, i should've known better, but i couldn't say hello. i didn't know why, but now i think, i think you were sad. yes, you were, you were, you were. what i say, i say only to you cause i love and i love only you. dearest jane, i want to give you a dream that no one has given you. remember when we found misery? we watched her, watched her spread her wings and slowly fly around our room, and she asked for your gentle mind. misery is a butterfly. her heavy wings will warp your mind, with her small ugly face and her long antenna and her black and pink heavy wings. remember when we found misery? we watched her, watched her spread her wings and slowly fly around our room, and she asked for your gentle mind. (blonde redhead- misery is a butterfly)
this is going to be one of the most pointless, most irritating, most emo posts ever, so don't read it. it's for me, not you. self-loathing is go. okay? thanks.
there's always so much i want to say. as open as i have become with those i trust, i still hold at least 80% of my thoughts and feelings back, especially lately, especially with the people who matter the most. i don't even know why i'm writing here tonight (probably because i can't sleep) because it's not like i'm actually going to say anything of value. it's not like i'm really going to tell those of you reading this what's going on. even if i did, it wouldn't make a difference. there's nothing i can do to make things alright.
saturday night was one of the worst nights i've had in a while. well, the worst night since the night i got drunk and took those pills anyway. well, and since the night last week when you and i had our little talk about giving up. those nights were pretty bad too. i also don't think you can count tonight out of the running, though it is occurring after saturday night. let's just say though, for the sake of argument and because it's true, that tonight is a bad night.
so why am i having all these bad nights? why am i self-destructing again? why am i relying on alcohol and pills? why do i hate myself so much right now that i put myself in very real physical danger? why is it getting harder and harder to tell that sad little voice in my head to fuck the hell off?
the answers to these and many other questions lie in my sick and twisted little mind, and, right now, i don't feel like getting into it. you don't want to go there anyway. it is a silly place. i know the answers. i know why this is happening. i know why i'm acting out like this. and i also know where it's going. i know what's going to happen to me if i keep behaving the way i am. but i don't care. i don't give a shit. (if i did, you'd be the first person i gave it to.) but i guess that's part of the problem too. cause if i gave a flying fuck about myself, i'd be on hold on the emergency help line at kaiser psychiatry right now instead of typing this bullshit.
so... what does one do with oneself when one doesn't exactly want to die and yet no longer cares to live? seems obvious, right? one does pretty much what i've been doing. at least i'm on track with one thing in my life.
i don't like feeling this way. i don't think anyone in their right mind would suggest that. this emptiness, this hopelessness, it's all far too familiar. i'm twelve again, and the world is a big, cruel place, a place i don't belong. i wasn't in control then. i thought years of therapy had taught me a thing or two, and yet, here i am in the same place: out of control and out of ideas. i should start rocking my old look (mary janes, baby doll dresses, and ripped stockings) again to celebrate. you could just see the scars on my legs peeking out from under my skirt. i was so tragically tortured then. i guess i haven't changed as much as i thought i had.
saturday night, i went out with the sole purpose of getting drunk. when i unexpectedly ran into some perfectly nice acquaintances of mine and had the chance to salvage the evening, i chose not to. i chose to be anti-social and drink some more on the outskirts of the group, not really talking to anybody. i could have vanished or burst into flames, and no one would have been the wiser. and that wasn't their fault. it was mine. i deliberately alienated myself from them. why? because i didn't go out to hang out with them. i went out to try to kill some brain cells in the hope of making myself too dumb to feel this pain.
not to toot my own horn (though i seem to be the only one willing to do so lately), but it's hard to be smart. it's hard to be sensitive. it's hard to be older than your years. i've been called a genius before on more than a handful of occasions. now, i don't think that's true. i'm not a genius. anyone who reads this journal will attest to that. but, at the same time, there is something different about me. i notice things that other people don't. i feel things very deeply that seem to pass other people by. somehow, i just know things. i know that sounds crazy, and you must all think that i'm deluded in addition to being depressed. maybe i am, but this is how i feel. i feel like i know things on an intuitive level that most people will never even think about their whole lives. i don't know how i know all of these things. i just do. i feel like i think more than other people. that doesn't mean i'm smarter than they are. i'm not trying to say that at all. but maybe i'm more in touch with something... maybe i'm more aware. this isn't always a good thing. sure, it makes me a great listener. it means that i'm usually able to give really good advice, even if i haven't experienced a particular situation myself. it means i'm a good person to have around, if for no other reason than i can make poultices and get imaginary bugs out of ears. i'm damned good in an emergency, whether it be literal or figurative. but it's also exhausting. and painful. and extremely lonely. and i don't know if i can do it anymore.
you see, i've been this way my whole life. even as a child, my parents knew there was something different about me. i never really had friends. i had imaginary stories that i would act out in my head. i lived almost entirely in my own thoughts. i had a few teachers who thought i was autistic when i was in preschool. they thought that because i never talked to anyone. they thought it was because i couldn't. the real reason was that i wouldn't. my parents had some doctors test me. i'm perfectly normal. if there is anything abnormal about me it's that i usually score very high on iq tests and other standardized tests. i could be in mensa if i applied. if i thought that would make any difference whatsoever. but with this gift comes a burden. imagine never being able to turn it off. imagine never being able to watch television or see a silly movie or read a book or listen to a song without analyzing it critically and thinking of all the different hidden meanings, not to mention the personal connotations it holds for you. imagine never being able to have a conversation without your mind going off in twenty different directions at once thinking about possibilities that are tangential or completely unrelated as often as they are pertinent. imagine never being able to have sex without your mind wandering through philosophical debates and current events and whether or not you turned the iron off (and imagine having to lie about that to the people you love the most). imagine never being able to stop seeing images and telling stories and wondering and remembering. imagine never being able to relax. imagine never being able to sleep. imagine never being able to do anything without this noise, without this intrusion. imagine never being able to not think.
this is a disease. it is not normal. it is not healthy. there are lots of people who do those things i mentioned some of the time. but the ones who do it all of the time are miserable. simply living day to day is a harrowing struggle. trust me on that one.
let me add as a side note here that there are many people on my friends list (not to mention my friends in real life) who are brilliant and sensitive and wise and wonderful. you know who you are. i am not trying to slight you or claim that i am better than you are. far from it. i am different, but i am hardly better. if i were better, i would not be so sad. life would be easier for me. no, no. i am not better. i am unhealthy. and besides, if i did not value your intelligence, you would not be my friends. that is one of the most important qualities that i look for in the people i choose to have around me.
there are also people reading this who will identify with my problems because they experience the same things. you, too, know who you are. again, i make no claim of superiority. my blessing/ curse is no better or worse than yours. you will understand more than anyone else possibly could what i am going through right now, how difficult everything can be, and how tired i am.
but back to the point (i know it's in there somewhere). i'm exhausted. i'm tired of fighting. i'm tired of trying and always failing. i'm tired of being alone (there is no place more lonely than your own mind, and that's where i am most of the time). so i drink and take muscle relaxants in the hope of gaining the ability to turn this off. i have been fighting this my whole life, and i just don't know if i can do it anymore. i have been the good daughter, the good friend, the good girlfriend, the good human being. i have always tried, and i feel that, for the most part, i have succeeded. but it has brought me a lot of pain. the people i care about the most always end up hurting me the most. and i can't stop feeling that hurt. i carry it around with me everywhere i go. i can't let go or move on. i'm still hurting from things that happened to me eighteen years ago. over the years, it has only grown. like the remains of an ancient civilization, layer upon layer has been added until i am left with a jumbled mass of broken stone and twisted metal. it's cold and ugly and, above all, dangerous. one false step and the whole thing could collapse. i'm tired of this weight. i'm also tired of the burden that i know this weight puts on the people around me. i wonder sometimes why so few people genuinely want to be my friend, but it makes perfect sense. it's damned hard to be my friend. it's frustrating and frightening and depressing to know that there's always this cold, dead mass under the surface that could rear it's head at any time. and i suppose it must be hard too, for those who are aware enough to realize it, that anyone who has any meaningful place in my life at all is destined to contribute to this mass. it is the way of the world. if i love you, you will hurt me at some time or another, and you will thus add another layer of brick and garbage and dust. (this is not to say that i don't hurt other people. i do. all the time. but we're talking about me here, fuckers, so back off.)
everybody likes strong people because they never ask for help. they never demand anything for themselves. rather, they give and give until you think they can't possibly have anything left, but then they give some more. well, just because you're strong doesn't mean you don't need help. and just because you don't ask doesn't mean you don't have needs. i have needs. i have a lot to give, but nobody wants it. and i'm not as strong as i seem. inside, i'm still that girl in the black ripped tights hiding the scars but secretly hoping someone will notice and understand.
so yeah. i guess this is a cry for help if i ever read one. but, at the same time, i'm not expecting anything from any of you. i'll figure this out. i always do. so don't worry. no need to call. i will ask for help when i'm ready. and, just in case you were concerned, i'll still be around in one way or another the next time you need someone who understands.
love and other perishables,
erin
daily reading of the lyrical gospel: tell me, baby, tell me. are you still on the stoop watching the windows close? i've not seen seen you lately on the street, by the beach, or places we used to go. i've a picture of you on our favorite day by the seaside. there's a bird stealing bread that i brought out from under my nose. tell me, baby, tell me. does his company make light of a rainy day? how i've missed you lately and the way we would speak and all that we wouldn't say. do his hands in your hair feel a lot like a thing you believe in or a bit like a bird stealing bread out from under your nose? tell me, baby, tell me. do you carry the words around like a key or change? i've been thinking lately of a night on the stoop and all that we wouldn't say. if i see you again on the street, by the beach, in the evening, will you fly like a bird stealing bread out from under my nose? (iron and wine- bird stealing bread)
last night, i dreamt that somebody loved me. no hope, no harm, just another false alarm. last night, i felt real arms around me. no hope, no harm, just another false alarm. so tell me how long before the last one? and tell me how long before the right one? the story is old- I KNOW- but it goes on. the story is old- I KNOW- but it goes on. oh, goes on and on. oh, goes on and on. (the smiths- last night i dreamt that somebody loved me)
dearest jane, i should've known better, but i couldn't say hello. i didn't know why, but now i think, i think you were sad. yes, you were, you were, you were. what i say, i say only to you cause i love and i love only you. dearest jane, i want to give you a dream that no one has given you. remember when we found misery? we watched her, watched her spread her wings and slowly fly around our room, and she asked for your gentle mind. misery is a butterfly. her heavy wings will warp your mind, with her small ugly face and her long antenna and her black and pink heavy wings. remember when we found misery? we watched her, watched her spread her wings and slowly fly around our room, and she asked for your gentle mind. (blonde redhead- misery is a butterfly)