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Previous - this entry written on March 03, 2002 at 12:41 am - Next *sighs* I know I should have done something different... should have remembered the van was broken, should have remembered that now that Robert is home, I can't use the car. Should have thought. I know that the only reason I am feeling stupid right now is because I AM stupid, I forgot, it's not anyone else's fault. I also know that right now, all I want to do is curl up and cry. I really wanted to get out to Rocky tonight. Get out, see people, what-have-you. I want to actually get out of this house and away from these people. I love Deb to pieces, she's wonderful, she really is... but I don't want to try to listen, to act like I am paying attention, when I KNOW my mind is wandering. I want to get out of here. I want my head to stop screaming and spinning, I feel like I'm drowning and I want it to stop, I want this pain to go away and leave me alone, haven't I hurt enough yet? When does this end? My knives are never sharp enough to cut out the hurt and the blackness. They can't get rid of the misery, but I try, I try, a little bit deeper each time, sooner or later I'll find it and cut it out, and then I'll be fine. Music. Spirals and knifepoints, spatters of blood, harp strings, no one else knows that what I draw, what I mark on my body, it's just music. Have to have some way to keep the sounds with me, they punish me but they keep me whole, too. I don't know how that works. I only know it does. There's a heat in my chest, fireball centered on my heart, aching and pulsing. My back hurts. Muscles tense. I can still feel his fingers on my skin, I woke up last night with that image in my head, his hands, his eyes, dark hair, that smile, trapped in a schoolroom and believing it was for me, that it was all. I believed him when he told me he was my world. How do you turn off memories? His face. The sound of my daughter breathing. Little baby breath, fragile like flowers and so close, I could have died then. I should have died then. Mistakes upon mistakes upon mistakes, and how can I be so forgetful in life when in the moments between, my memory is the one thing I can't seem to escape? This must be someone's idea of a sick joke. I want to curl up and cry, to just sob and scream until it all comes out. If I can't cut it out, maybe I can cry it out. Maybe I can fuck it out. Maybe I can just curl up inside, little tiny ball of fear and tears and pain, and if it ever stops hurting, that's when I will come out again, that�s when I will stop huddling. Strain. My muscles clench, cramps, and then the stab of pain that only happens when something goes wrong. There's the tightness in my throat and stomach that I associate with fear and guilt. Why do I feel guilty? Why not, I guess. I fucked up. Over and over I fucked up. No job, no career, no home, no life. Killed. Killed and killed, they keep saying it's murder and maybe it is, I murdered the last one, I know that. Murder. Death. Blood. I hope I never have a daughter... why is this my life? Why didn't I get the nice normal life, good health, public school, normal parents and normal friends and normal sexual habits. Why is it that whimpering makes me cum but give me good normal sex and it bores me, or frightens me? Where is the rulebook, I want to see this written down, I bet it's fucking crazy to read, like watching someone else's acid trip, all colors and wrongness, all the way down to hell. I feel like I am the virus here. There's some good and sweet part in there, that's what was supposed to be here. I invaded. I got all up in this body and I can't seem to leave, the blades and the bites and the whip and the hurt, it draws me out to the edge, so close to disappearing, then I slam back into consciousness with hate and vengeance, I don't want to be here! All I want is to curl up and cry. Curl up and die. I just want it to stop hurting. I want to stop being frightened. I want to feel, just once, like I EARNED something good, like I deserve it. I want it to be ok for me to want. None of this guilt, none of the nausia that builds every time I think of that 'perfect life', none of the wishing and none of the wanting and none of it, just contentment. Not surface shit. The real thing. Really safe and happy. Promised so many people I wouldn't kill myself, suicide is stupid, it's not nice, I said I wouldn't and I am trying so hard to keep to that, I promised them. I think I lied. I know I lied. Each day, tick tock closer to the edge, and how long really can I keep up this fight? I forget things, I loose track of things, it's as if my mind is crumbling away and I don't know how to cope with it, I don't know what to say, what to do, any of that... I don't know why I exist... I don't know... I feel lost. Purpose gone. Meaning gone. Existance gone. Nothing left. I want to die. Ignore this entry. I'm sure I will feel better in the morning. Hosted by Diaryland - All Rights Reserved - Image, Layout, and Content copyright Jax Raven - - Do Not Feed The Moose - |
