One Step at a Time

I keep telling myself that it’ll get better; that it takes one step at a time, if I don’t think beyond today.  But it’s hard to believe myself (and the many people who have told me that I’m strong, that I can get through it) when I go to bed hoping that maybe, I won’t wake up in the morning.  When I open my drawer and wonder just how many Advil would it take?  When I hit snooze and roll back over to sleep, hoping that I can escape into my dreams for more than one night.

Before you freak out, I’m too cowardly to actually swallow those pills.  I just morbidly daydream about what would happen if I did.  It’s so hard to put my feelings into words, because I’m not trying to get your attention.  I’m escaping into writing, because that’s what I do when I’m not well.

And I’m not well.  Not by the widest stretch of imagination.  My dreams have reached that point where I’m almost afraid to close my eyes and sink into that oblivion, but still, I welcome the frightening world my head creates for me.  It’s easy.

I’m afraid to venture from my room, but I’m more afraid of the darkness that lingers in my bed.  It’s soothing to relax into it in the dark room, but my bed has become my hell, while it also becomes my haven.  I get suffocated by memories every time I put my head to my pillow, when my knee brushes the cold wall, when I inhale the smell of my blankets.

I’m running out of pretty words to describe how I feel, and I’m getting to this point:

It fucking hurts; I fucking hurt, being me fucking hurts me.  There’s something wrong inside me and I can’t fix it; this feeling, this darkness, this elusive pain keeps ducking its head and crawling deeper into me.

I don’t know how to cope; I’ve never learned how.  I keep pushing everything further back, adding more to what I have to deal with someday.  Just scratching the surface is like slamming a finger into a nerve; I feel utterly helpless when emotions flood over me.  How do you cope with yourself if you hate yourself?  I’m second guessing everything I’ve ever held as a fact.

I want to get back in bed because everything is simple; my mind does all the work.  But I force myself to get up, I force myself to dress, to eat, to shower, to go to class.  I force myself to smile at people who smile at me.

More mascara: less tears.  Pull yourself together.


Oh God, Not Again

It’s almost been an entire month since the last time I blogged, and today’s post isn’t really so much as catching up, but rather of complaining.

If you’ve read ONE of my posts, you’ll know that it’s what I do best.  In fact, if you know me at all (Twitter, YouTube, Facebook, in person), you know I complain a lot.  I’ve never been one to try and censor myself online (though, perhaps I should), and today’s post is no exception.  Hm, I’m not sure where to start, so I’ll start simply, with an effort to grab your attention (though, if you’ve gotten this far, I know I already have your attention…give me a break).

My life is falling apart.

If you go back a year in my blog, back to April of 2011, of 2010 even, you’ll know this is almost an annual thing.  But this time, I’m not kidding (the other times I wasn’t either, but this feels more serious).  I lost my job (over a month ago now, I think), I’m in dire straits when it comes to paying bills, I’m about to lose my place to live (school is ending), and although I have a slight summer plan, I have no way to execute it.  I’m fighting with everyone I love, and I’m constantly irritated.  I spend hours upon hours in my room, trying to get away from people, and when someone intrudes on this solitude, I get anxious and angry.

I always tell people that I don’t regret things, but I do.  I regret not applying to the Africa program (even though it made me anxious), because I know I would have been accepted.  That year abroad would have fixed this feeling (I think).  But instead, here I sit, knowing what I need to do, yet unable to do it.

You can tell me what I need to do, and I’ll listen to you, and agree that those steps are the ones I need to take, but I can’t take them.  Nor can you force me to.  I have to do it myself, yet I have no motivation to do anything.  My life is coming undone at the seams, and my coping method is to play dead and watch it unravel around me.

I’m getting to the point that it’s too late to do anything.  What I do now won’t help me, and I’m already sinking fast.

I can see the pity on your face (or is that annoyance?) as you read this; just another college girl having a moan about money.

But at this point, I’m starting to look inside me, and I’m not liking what I see.  I don’t want to do anything.  I’m stuck in this web, and I see the big fucking depression spider advancing on me, grinning as massively as possible.

I need help, but oh dear god, I’m not going to ask for it.  That makes me weak, right?  That makes me just another helpless girl, right?  I’ve been living basically on my own for at least 4 years now, and I still can’t take care of myself properly (hell, most of the time I can’t bring a fork to my mouth without dropping food down my front); oh, what am I saying, who am I kidding?  Did I ever take care of myself?

Just writing this is making me spin faster in this hurricane, and I can see all my faults.  I want to run away, I want to escape all ties, all debts.

I want to lay down and die.

God.  Again, I know what you’re thinking.  I need to go see someone and talk about my issues.  I’m not too far gone to realize that; in that aspect, I’ve always had incredible clarity.  I know when I need to ask for help, yet I can’t bring myself to actually do it.  I’m pathetic in the worst way possible.  I’ve alienated myself from my family, whether it was on purpose remains to be seen.  I’m spiraling out of control, and I’m about to crash. Oh dear, close your eyes.

Don’t watch.