Makes me wonder if I've forgotten how...
May. 13th, 2002 10:29 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mousmeThink I may have forgotten how to be happy, dammit.
Cheerful, sure, but it doesn't seem to last. I thought I might have been overtired, but I've been sleeping well and enough lately.
Comment added later: don't read what follows unless you plan to be really disturbed. My thoughts are not quite as pleasant as they usually are. Lots of nasty graphic stuff in there.
Awful as it may sound (even to me), things were a lot simpler when I was depressed, isolated, and self–destructive. Suddenly I don't have an excuse to be feeling this way. My family is behaving, my friends are still great, as is the boyfriend, I have a good job, and I haven't cut in over two months.
So why the fuck do I feel so terrible? I should be happy now. The stupid little blue pills are meant to help too, and they're not. Sick as it may be, I miss the cutting. I feel so goddamned empty and useless and futile. Just a fucking waste of space, as usual.
Goddammit, why can't this just go away?
Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
I'm tired of pretending to be happy, pretending to be normal. Tired of putting on a brave cheerful face every goddamned day for seven fucking years.
Just want it to be over. Want to take my razor blade and undo the last two months' hard work, watch myself bleed and hurt, hit my head against a wall until I black out. Crawl into a dark hole and never come out again.
Wish I could find it in me to give up, but I won't yet. Not even going to cut.
Stupid stupid stupid. That's all there is to it. Can't even have a nice relationship with a nice, decent guy without second–guessing myself every step of the way. It's been two months and already I'm questioning my own feelings, my motivations. Feel like I might just be using the poor guy in order to feel "normal," whatever the fuck that means these days.
Maybe whatever I'm feeling isn't real, just one last desperate pathetic attempt to prove to myself that I'm not a complete failure, not a complete freak. How do you convince yourself you're not a failure when you've carved the word into your leg? At least that scar has almost completely faded.
I've decided to wear shorts and skirts anyway. Fuck the world. If they see the scars, they can fucking deal and suck it up. I'm tired of pretending, of lying, of making up stories.
So much simpler when I buried myself under the covers and never came out for air. I was suffocating, but at least I was doing it myself. Now I'm suffocating under the puzzled and frightened stares of the well–meaning world.
How do you explain words carved into you? "Gee, I slipped and fell and the cut I got looks exactly like the word 'stupid.'"
Fuck again.
And now I have to get dressed and face the day and the world and be as okay as I possibly can. As much for me as the rest of them. If I can fool them, sometimes I manage to fool myself as well.
Cheerful, sure, but it doesn't seem to last. I thought I might have been overtired, but I've been sleeping well and enough lately.
Comment added later: don't read what follows unless you plan to be really disturbed. My thoughts are not quite as pleasant as they usually are. Lots of nasty graphic stuff in there.
Awful as it may sound (even to me), things were a lot simpler when I was depressed, isolated, and self–destructive. Suddenly I don't have an excuse to be feeling this way. My family is behaving, my friends are still great, as is the boyfriend, I have a good job, and I haven't cut in over two months.
So why the fuck do I feel so terrible? I should be happy now. The stupid little blue pills are meant to help too, and they're not. Sick as it may be, I miss the cutting. I feel so goddamned empty and useless and futile. Just a fucking waste of space, as usual.
Goddammit, why can't this just go away?
Fuck fuck fuck fuck.
I'm tired of pretending to be happy, pretending to be normal. Tired of putting on a brave cheerful face every goddamned day for seven fucking years.
Just want it to be over. Want to take my razor blade and undo the last two months' hard work, watch myself bleed and hurt, hit my head against a wall until I black out. Crawl into a dark hole and never come out again.
Wish I could find it in me to give up, but I won't yet. Not even going to cut.
Stupid stupid stupid. That's all there is to it. Can't even have a nice relationship with a nice, decent guy without second–guessing myself every step of the way. It's been two months and already I'm questioning my own feelings, my motivations. Feel like I might just be using the poor guy in order to feel "normal," whatever the fuck that means these days.
Maybe whatever I'm feeling isn't real, just one last desperate pathetic attempt to prove to myself that I'm not a complete failure, not a complete freak. How do you convince yourself you're not a failure when you've carved the word into your leg? At least that scar has almost completely faded.
I've decided to wear shorts and skirts anyway. Fuck the world. If they see the scars, they can fucking deal and suck it up. I'm tired of pretending, of lying, of making up stories.
So much simpler when I buried myself under the covers and never came out for air. I was suffocating, but at least I was doing it myself. Now I'm suffocating under the puzzled and frightened stares of the well–meaning world.
How do you explain words carved into you? "Gee, I slipped and fell and the cut I got looks exactly like the word 'stupid.'"
Fuck again.
And now I have to get dressed and face the day and the world and be as okay as I possibly can. As much for me as the rest of them. If I can fool them, sometimes I manage to fool myself as well.