I've given up crying, it occurred to me that it's a waste of perfectly good fluid when I'm already dehydrated enough.

I've given up singing along with music when I'm alone - I don't want to hear myself - and I'm trying to give up singing when I'm not alone, because I know that the songs I choose to sing could be done better by someone else.

I've given up my belief that 'everything will be ok' because it WON'T. It won't. No matter how hard I try to hold on to that happy thought, it doesn't stay. Things are not ok, nor will they be.

I've given up trusting my mind. I forget the important things and remember only darkness. A mind that can't hold on to any cheerful thoughts, that is no good for remembering dates, or who I need to write to, is of no use to me.

I've given up believing that there is anywhere I can really call home. No town, no city, no house, no stretch of land. I've often said before that I do not have a home. I am certain of it now.

I've given up eating. It only makes my upset stomach worse, it never gives me enough energy, it's a waste of time and messy to boot.

I've given up a lot of things.

I haven't given up love... I don't know how to shut it off any more than I know how to make it happen. I don't know how to fix it, or cure it.

I haven't given up my faith in a few people... but I know that they are giving up on me, and it's really only fair.

I haven't given up my hope that I'm wrong about all this. I keep wishing that life were different. Easier. Simpler. That I were healthy, or even just healthy enough to hold down a job. I hope for the courage to submit my stories, to try to get published... but I know I won't.

I haven't given up on survival yet. I keep going, one day at a time, refusing to die, refusing to stop breathing, stop existing.

I think I've given up on life, though. It's not worth this much pain. It's not worth this much confusion. It's not worth... worth caring.

The funny thing is that I don't think it ever was worth caring about... I was just tricking myself. Deluded into believing that 'happily ever after' and 'safety' and 'forever' were real.

They aren't.

There is no safety.

There is no happily ever after.

There are no forevers, no perfect endings.

Even sunsets are just chemical spills.

I hurt in so many places that I honestly don't want to try counting them. Even if I hadn't decided to stop bothering other than maybe when my body drives me to it, I can't eat right now - it just comes back up, even WITH the anti-nausia medication. My head aches, both sides ache, my hips, my pelvis, my legs, my hands, my arms, my neck, my back... and a thousand more places inside that I don't even know the names of. Just pain.

Caleb leaves for California in a week. Maybe a day more, maybe a day less. But he IS leaving. He's going away. And I still don't know how I am going to survive. Grants? Scholarships? Great idea, Jax... considering that they won't even START until next term or later. There is no money to be found there, not in time for me to survive.

I can go back to my parents. Personally, I'm hoping that they decide instead to help me with bills until I can get the grants I need, but I doubt they are going to be that helpful. So. Back to my parents. Arrasto, you'll uderstand this: if I go back with my parents, if I have to live with them again, deal with their constant pressure and invasion of privacy, with the religion they try to stuff down my throat and the horrible way they make me feel... if I go back there, I'm signing my own death warrent, emotionally.

If I hit the streets, I'm signing it physically.

Staying here, much as I would rather be other places, my OWN places, is the best possible alternative... but I'm no longer entirely sure it's possible.

When I started up d-land I'd actually intended to write a post to Elru, since apparently he is on the eat-the-emails list. I still have that entry stored in the back of my mind... I don't know what I'm going to do with it.

Y'see, in the course of writing I've gotten surprisingly apathetic. Not enough to believe ignoring the problem, staying silent, is the RIGHT choice... but it's the easy one. It's the one that won't make me start crying. It's the one that won't confuse me, or make me struggle for words.

What I'm writing now... it's just flowing out. All of it. And there's so much more. It's easy to let it out, it hurts too much NOT to let it out. Every now and then honesty and depression are all I am.

I used to worry that someday I'd get into a depressed mood and just never make it out again.

*shrugs*

I don't worry about that now.

I don't care enough to worry.

Living is horrible.

Existance is horrible.

Why bother?