Instead of waking up every day and being thankful I’m alive, I wake up and wish he would have shot me. Then I wouldn’t have to live with this kind of shame. The shame of letting it happen. It’s weird how when you think you’re dying all you want to do is live and then when your life is spared sometimes all you want to do is cease to exist.
[side note: I am not going to kill myself so stop wondering. Plus if you know me, I just got a really cool fucking job and some other stuff is going really well so why would I?]
Drinking simultaneously makes me feel better and makes me feel horrible. At least it lets me cry.
I had a short relapse of caring that the only time I actually talk to other human beings is at my counselor, in my Watercolor class, and when it is absolutely necessary. It’s over. I’m wondering if my vocal chords will dry up from underuse. I’m not sure I would care.
I’ve stopped sleeping entirely outside of two naps a day. I look like hell.
I’m homesick for a place that I can never go back to. I felt so safe there, but apparently it was not the kind of safe I expected from it.
I’m so badly broken right now, I don’t have a choice but to invent something new with the pieces that are left. I also don’t have any glue and I’m out of both fucking nails and screws. Fuck it, I’ll just leave the pieces scattered everywhere and call it installation art. I trip over a piece of myself every so often, cut my foot on a shard, then I kick it away and continue to wander around lost and empty. I don’t really care enough right now to sort through the pieces, pick out the good ones and do something with them. Perhaps due to the strange apathy I have toward my existence in general. I won’t do anything to influence it either way, I just don’t care that much.
I’m letting this eat away at me. It’s like acid. And I don’t care. I don’t have the energy to do anything about it. I’m just quietly waiting for it to bubble my skin away and expose my heart. Maybe then people will be able to see it and I won’t feel like I’m hiding myself. But, I don’t really even have a self to hide. It’s like I don’t exist while I still do.
EMDR. I’m trying it as a last resort. Reprocess the memories. They won’t be so disruptive to my life. But, even without disruptive memories… am I going to have a life? What is a life? Not this. Not waking up every day ungrateful I’m alive, not waking up and wishing he would have shot me.
Tell me one good reason why this is not my fault. One good reason why I couldn’t scream. Why I couldn’t shove him off the bed. I can’t find one and I’m not so sure there is one. How the hell am I supposed to forgive myself and be able to move on when I can’t find one damn’ piece of logic that tells me this was not my fault?
Fuck you Faceless Man. Fuck you for showing me these little truths. Fuck you. Fuck me for letting them be true.
