(NO, that's not related to the entry, only to the fact that I am playing Bjork while Ryan is preparing to leave.)

I'm frustrated. A night of sleep has only made the whole thing look clearer and let me tell you, clearer is not better. I kinda envy Justin - he started out knowing where he was going. Me? I'd at least hoped that I could maybe get some of the physical problems treated before they went digging into my head. I don't like what's in there and frankly, I don't think they will either. They, in this case, being the vague yet threatening They who I still can't fucking get any appointments with. Makes me want to go commit myself or something

Stress on the 'something'.

So writing for an audience, let's just address that. Fucking everything that isn't inside your own head (and really, even that) is for an audience. Even if it's just yourself, you're putting on a show for someone. Every time you walk out the door, every time you write word one on a screen, every time you speak to anyone about anything, congratulations. You've got an audience. Sucks, doesn't it?

I kinda like it. At least this way when I crack, there'll be people aware enough to clean up the mess afterward, put the bodies in the bags, and take me away.

Hell. Have I mentioned this is hell?

My fucking doctor isn't even in today. No meds. Again. LESS THAN A WEEK OF MEDICATION BEFORE NOTHING AGAIN, and you know what every fucking one of those bottles says? DO NOT STOP SUDDENLY, may cause seizures, panic attacks, other mental and emotional trauma. Fuck this.

Fuck this all.

I mean, I can't get treatment without actually committing myself to the psychiatric ward somewhere, and then gods know when I'll get out; I won't have computer access or possibly even pen-and-paper.

I could walk into any ER and get myself locked up. It's funny. Most people really, honestly couldn't. They'd end up just feeling stupid, saying the wrong shit, whatever. Me? Oh fuck no. All I have to do is spend about thirty minutes with a razor blade, another half-hour with a sharpie, and say what's on my mind when I get there. They won't be letting me see the sun for months.

Hold on... tell me, what exactly am I supposed to be holding on TO? A diet of ramen and pasta and when I'm lucky, fast food that someone else is buying? A computer that's not mine, a bed that's not mine, but a hell of a lot of pain that IS mine?

The hope that if I can wait a month and then some, that maybe I'll see a different doctor who might only have a fucking six-month waiting period instead of an eight-month one?

So what do I do now? Go eat more ramen, puke it back up - oh, yeah, I'm losing weight again. Guess why.

I can't do this.

Becca, don't know if you'll even see this, but if you do... Ryan's about to take off for the weekend and I really, REALLY have to get out of here for a while.

If you don't see this, then eh. Not your fault.

*sighs* At least I know where the razorblades are.