I'm Sorry
Previous - this entry written on June 01, 2003 at 8:29 pm - Next


...wake me up inside...

No, not relative to anything.

My mom called. She seemed... upset, that's the word. She seemed upset that I could possibly go through as many vicoprofin in the last week as I have. She felt it was her duty to remind me that they are *gasp* addictive... that I'm supposed to be Cutting Back... look, I know damned well that they're addictive, I'm the one with the withdrawal symptoms, it's not like I can ignore that. I am QUITE aware of the fact that I'm cutting back - I'm getting roughly HALF of what I was used to, and it's not being fun or pleasant. It is neither her duty nor her place to lecture me on something that I think about quite literally every day.

It's 8:31 now.

The sun is finally setting, all the trees outside are touched with copper and gold. It's not really been all that bright today, a fair dose of cloud cover, but with a migrane everything seems fully lit and painful. I keep wanting to find some way to drown myself, to get past what I'm feeling, and I am realizing that staring out the window, listening to music, isn't helping. It's as if everything is only half-real except the pain, the sense of loss, the frustration. Crying is utterly miserable when you've got a migrane, each sob and each tear only makes the pounding burning ache worse.

I...

...I should know better than this.

I keep saying that, but I keep not listening. I should know better than this. I don't need new ways to hurt. I don't need to let myself rely on anyone else. I don't need to be.

That's what it's coming back down to.

I don't need to be. I don't need to exist. I'm already half-gone, never there when my boys need me, barely conscious some days and in too much pain other days to respond, depressed and depressing. At one point...

...I used to be sure I made a difference, convinced that there were at least a few people whose lives would be better if I stayed around, kept trying, kept breathing, kept existing. I'm not quite sure what happened to that certainty but it's been slipping away.

Addicted. Bitchy. Constant pain. Unable to work. Unproductive. Messy. Disorganized. Untrustworthy. Unfaithful. Out of control. Sick. Tired. Useless. Worthless.

Nothing.

Empty.

...I'll be yours...

But I'm not. I can barely remember from moment to moment that I belong, let alone belong to anyone. I draw breath and it feels like wasted oxygen. I wake up and can't help dreading the day as I rise into it.

I understand why some people go willingly. I understand why death has such a draw.

I remember how it feels.

I remember...

...blood, fresh and bright, each drop that falls taking with it a bit of the filth and dust and hate, each cut making the body that bears it a bit more real, the sting and the tears and the desperation slowly fading.

Never enough scars.

So what do I do?

I know I'm not going to kill myself today. There's no way to do so without hurting the people I care about, no way to do so cleanly, no certainty that I will actually DIE instead of merely coming close, saved to live with the shame of yet another failure. I won't let that happen.

I'm not even sure I should post this entry. It's not how I feel all the time, not what drives me most days. For now, though... for now this is the most honest thing I've posted in months. This is me. This is what I keep locked away, this is what never really fades, this is why I look away and why I flinch and why I wake with tears in my eyes. This is why I hate. This is why I love.

This is me.

8:43 pm, and I am still waiting.

There's a razor blade within easy reach. There's knives. Pills. Promises. A thousand ways to draw out the hurt, to wrap it up and tuck it out of sight, to stifle it and put it out of my mind for another day.

I get my anti-depressants in bottles of 150. The next set should be picked up in roughly two weeks. Fairly soon after that I'll have my next full vicoprofin script filled, as well as the anti-seizure medication and possibly even the ibprofin. Here's a fun exercise for you, kiddies: how much damage can 150 50mg amatryp, 90 100mg dylantin, 60 400mg ibprofin, 75 vicoprofin, and a bottle of vodka do to one full-grown female?

With that much... the vicoprofin would kick in first, the ibprofin and amatryp hitting at roughly the same time after that, followed by the dylantin and the vodka. If I could keep from puking it up (which might involve nixing the vodka and going for a couple of wine coolers - the alcohol in two of those should be enough to fry my kidneys and liver with what else I'd be pumping in) and keep it down for the hour it would take me to fall asleep, I wouldn't wake up.

Not that I've thought this through or anything.

...with my head in my hands I sit and cry... don't speak, I know just what you're saying, so please stop explaining, don't tell me 'cause it hurts...

8:49. Yes, I type fairly fast. And also yes, I've now spent 20 minutes typing up an entry that most people wouldn't ever write. Migrane still in effect. Side pain fading slightly - the two alieve Grr gave me earlier did help a bit, thank the gods.

I called. Weak, foolish, stupid, pathetic, unnecessary... I called, and he'd already left. No one knew when; they'd thought he might still be there. Why do I keep being so predictable, so stupid, so desperate? Why can't I just cut out the parts of me that won't stop trusting and loving and caring? Why do I keep feeling like something is going horribly wrong when everyone else thinks things are fine? WHY?

...then again, it doesn't really matter, does it?

The 22nd is a Saturday, I believe. It would be nice to go to Rocky. See everyone.

I do try not to do things half-heartedly.

...a new religion that'll bring ya to your knees...

I can count the days.

There's a song that I haven't heard in a long time... I think I'm going to see if I can download it. It would be a nice change of pace, music-wise. I used to listen to it a lot when I was younger - my parents had a tape with that song on it and they couldn't understand why I liked it. 9:01, and I've found a couple of versions, one of which is downloading painfully slowly and one of which is in queue still.

For love is mainly just memories
And everyone's got them a few...
...when I'm gone I'll be glad to love you

The version I had was by Joan Baez and it's been playing over and over in my head the last few days. I'm not entirely sure what started it up but it keeps feeling somehow appropriate.

The sun has finished setting now - the sky is bluegrey shading into the lighter grey of clouds to the west and the darker blue of night approaching from the east. I used to love this time of the day... watching the world fall asleep just as I was truly waking up, knowing that only the ones who felt the way I did would be roaming the streets, staring out windows, silently grateful for the return of the only time that really mattered. When I was little everyone said I was strange, crazy, weird. When I got a bit older I found a couple friends who understood. Now? Now I live in a houseful of people who know how hateful the sun can be at times, now I know that I was NOT alone, that the ones who said I was wrong and crazy really had no idea what they were talking about. I wish I could go back and tell my ten-year-old self that I wasn't alone then. Maybe if I did so, I wouldn't feel so alone now.

9:06 pm.

"Bring Me To Life" - "When The World Ends" - "Even Angels Fall"

9:07. 9:08. Minutes, hours, and when will I finally find the strength to keep myself from dragging through another day? Counting down, and perhaps by the time I'm done counting I will have forgotten why I started, I will no longer feel the reasons that drive me tonight. Perhaps the day will pass, the night will fade, and I will continue. Perhaps this is all just talk, more hollow words and empty hopes.

Perhaps for the first time I know what I'm doing.

No more lights. No more will I let my body or my soul sprawl, bared, exposed, for anyone. This... this is just text, electronic flashes that no one can take completely seriously. This is not me stretched out for others' eyes. This is relief, and after the fact condemnation, and perhaps someday truth.

Nothing less.

Nothing more.

...nothing fills the blackness that has seeped into my chest... I need you in my blood, I am forsaking all the rest...

Darkening further. Right now the only real illumination in the room is the glow of the screen. My hands are pale. Grey t-shirt, untanned skin, and the rest of the world fades off into nothingness. Is it wrong to prefer that? Is it wrong to be thankful for the night, for the cool and the dark and the comfort?

9:14. Perhaps I'll have typed for an hour, by the time I post this. Perhaps I won't post it at all... but I know myself better than that. For this much writing, for this much of my emotions poured out here where they can do no harm, there is no real climax save adding these words to the worlds and worlds that stretch out. I'm waiting. It's been an hour since I called, time and time enough. I am not patient without good reason and tonight the only thing I have patience for is the slow count of days.

"Not Gonna Get Us"... it's playing now, and although the feeling of it, the sound and the desperation and the hope, feels so akin to portions of what flickers within me, the words are almost meaningless. The only 'us' that tangles through my mind is one that most of the world wouldn't recognize, one that is so often forgotten and so often stifled that it's hard to even speak of it at times.

Shall I say things plainly now? Would it matter? Will it change anything? ...no, but it might amuse. here, then: I want to cease existing. Dying will be unpleasant. I don't particularly want to die. It's just that I want to live even less, right now. I can't stand the sound of the phone against my ear, it sets my head to throbbing. I can't bear the shriek of small children, the hush and howl of conversation, anything but the desperate pounding of the few songs that match my own rhythms leaves me feeling worse and worse. My body is shattered, fading and falling; for every scrap of progress I fall ten feet further down. I am surprised to still be breathing now... but I've said for a long time that if I make it to 30 it will be a miracle. It's not just my body that is failing so, really. When the heart and mind within are turned to ash, how could the physical shell keep its form, its spark?

9:20 pm. Nine minutes short of an hour. This entry, this post, this is where my thoughts go. This is what I don't say. This is what I am thinking when my gaze is distant and my voice is rough and my every motion seems forced. This is me. There is no simple way to explain myself. There is no good answer to 'what are you thinking?' or to 'are you ok?'. There is nothing I can say spur-of-the-moment to in any way communicate this flow and ebb and ache. When I am asked, rarely can I condense my thoughts and feelings and sensations into one statement, certainly not a coherant or accurate one.

I want not to exist. I want not to hurt. I want not to ache. I want not to love, not to hate.

I want to be the nothing that I already feel I am. I want the shadows inside me to finally be at peace. I want. I need. So greedy, to say such things. Greedy and desperate, no real chance for redemption and no real desire for it even if it were, somehow, offered.

Nothing.

No one.

Hollow.

Empty.

Dark.

Hurting.

Hungering.

Cold.

Hot.

Dirty.

Alone.

Shallow.

Drowning.

I could find a thousand words and still there would be miscommunication. I've come to the conclusion that no one else is using quite the same definitions that I am - nothing else really explains my utter inability to make ANYTHING come out in a form that those I actually care about and bother communicating with will understand. I am becoming tired of trying.

I am tired of many things, now.

Countdown.

Scars.

Love... yes, love is still real. Nothing but love could hurt so deeply and matter so much and...

...Caleb on the phone. No, I've not answered it. I'm at the point where even typing is becoming agony, the whine of a phone pressed to my skull isn't going to be in any way better and I can't stand the thought of his voice causing me pain. He is still one of the few bright points in my life.

I miss him.

How can I feel so lonely and at the same time so desperate for all of it to end? I don't understand myself, I don't know why this keeps tangling me, I...

...please...

...please, make it stop...

...9:29.

And counting.

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