I have no eloquent words left for how enormous this unhappiness feels.
I have so much homework to do but I’m just laying here and I want to cry and I want to throw up and I want tomorrow to never come.
Two and a half more weeks until I see my psychiatrist. I don’t know if I can wait. Lately every day seems worse than the day before. I don’t know how to fix this.
I need to do my homework but I just can’t. get. off. the. floor.
There are some days I forget to eat
and soon my hands are shaking
like nervous butterflies.
I worry that I don’t drink enough water.
So I drink glass after glass after glass,
until my teeth are chattering
from an internal ice bath.
They say ice water burns
I drink water until I think I might throw up,
Because I hear it flushes toxins, you know?
I’m just a fleshy body, it’s not as if I’m eating heavy metals
while I’m making toast (which takes an eternity
in my little toaster oven)
I find myself with a spoon in the jam jar,
eating it straight.
Does anyone actually like bread?
Just plain bread?
I feel as if it’s merely a vehicle for jam.
Used only to deliver fruity sweetness
into my mouth.
My mom mails me her homemade jam.
Whole shoeboxes of jars that I line up
in my freezer.
I like that jam
because it makes my kitchen
taste like her kitchen.
So I got up early at 8 am to watch Blue Valentine again because apparently I like to cry and emotionally destroy myself before going to work…??
I don’t need you.
I don’t need you in order to be happy.
I don’t need you to keep living.
I don’t need you to be okay.
I don’t need you to love me.
I don’t need you to want me.
I don’t need you to like me.
I don’t need you to talk to me.
I don’t need you to rescue me from my illness and misery.
I don’t need you in order to get better.
I don’t need you to give me attention.
I don’t need you to fix me.
I don’t need to be the one you think about when you fall asleep.
I don’t need you to think I’m pretty.
I don’t need you to hold my hand.
I don’t need you to let me sleep in your bed.
I don’t need you to be there.
I don’t need you to be here.
I don’t need you to need me.
I don’t need to hold onto you.
I don’t need to cry over you.
I don’t need you.
I don’t need you.
I DON’T NEED YOU.
I thought I wasn’t mad at you. BUT LOL JK I HATE YOUR GUTS GO AWAY AND GO DIE OK THX.
What’s your study routine that helps make you an effective and successful student?This is mine:
Continue cycling through 45+5 minute study periods while constantly consuming the beverages listed above.
IDK WHAT YOUR STUDY ROUTINE IS, BUT THIS IS WORKING PRETTY GOOD FOR ME YOU GUYS.
(even if I have to go pee a lot)
I was just minding my own business doing some one am homework because I’m so behind in school. Had a severe disassociation episode. Flashed back and couldn’t stop feeling trapped in vivid memories and emotions that I’ve been repressing and haven’t worked through yet. Got really upset and started to panic and hyperventilate. Had to take all the Ativan and lay on the kitchen floor trying to breathe.
So much for studying tonight…
WHY CAN’T THIS ILLNESS FUCK OFF FOR JUST A FEW DAYS?! I just want to complete this course. I just want to be a successful student. I just want to feel normal and be functional.
I’m trying so hard to be good and be stable and I’m trying so hard to do my school work and my fucked up brain just won’t let me.
I’m so exhausted of this, I’m so frustrated, I’m so sick of having cheeks that are permanently soggy from tears. I need to wait three more weeks until I can see my psychiatrist and get different medications, and it will be many months before I’m off the wait list for treatment.
I don’t know if I can wait. Three weeks feels almost unreachable right now. I just want to be able to do University like a regular twenty-two year old. :( I just want to be happy and successful and normal and I CANNOT for the life of me make it happen. And this inability to “get my shit together” honestly just makes me so SAD.
I JUST WANT IT TO STOP FOR A FEW WEEKS. PLEASE. IT’S BEEN TEN YEARS. I NEED A BREAK.
University is just an experiment to see which happens first; you failing all your classes or your liver failing.
I remember painstakingly choosing my outfit.
I remember the walk to your house in the dark and the cold.
I remember your (favourite) roommate answering the door.
I remember giggling as I tried to wipe my hot pink lipstick off your pale pale cheek.
Sometimes I wish I could label myself ‘hand wash only’ for those extra delicate days.
I have this idea
that I’m so open, so self-aware,
but I’m really not.
I think I want to think
I’m more accepting of myself and my brokenness than I actually am.
It seems more… in control.
When the truth is:
I’ve probably been out of control for so long I doubt I would
what it feels like.
My productivity has reached an embarrassingly new low.
My to-do list contains items like “shower”, “email britt”, and “buy a pencil”.
I try to only write down easily achievable things.
It still takes me days to cross anything off.
I made a salad for dinner!
That’s major progress!
I put my dirty socks in the laundry bag tonight!
Walking to the library (3 blocks away) feels like so much activity for the day that I have to put on my grubby bathrobe and crawl straight into bed when I get home.
I have no appetite, no interest in food.
I wear fleece pajama pants and (un-ironic) ugly sweaters.
No more high heels and lipstick for me:
brushing my teeth and putting on a bra constitutes “dressing up” now.
Friends are too much effort,
I don’t want to leave this room.
Is this depression?
I just feel bored.
I think I’m turning into a sloth.
I lay here all day, this wrought-iron bed frame for a tree.
My floral duvet could pass for foliage.
I lay here in a slump.
I am a lump.
I watch every good movie ever created,
and then I start on the bad ones.
I consume frighteningly large quantities of instant coffee
All from the comfort of my IKEA brand tree.
I sleep fitfully most of the day, lay awake at night, swaddled in blankets.
I watch reruns of House until I am convinced:
I could write a script myself.
I think I’m turning into a sloth, although even they might accomplish more in a day
then I do.
I tie my hair back in an unflattering ponytail and burrow even further
under the covers.
Getting up is too daunting an idea.
The need for future employment fleetingly crosses my mind,
But this sloth decides instead to wait for National Geographic to come knocking.
I won’t bother getting up to answer the door, though
I’ll just politely yell from my nest of pillows: