Oh well, whatever, nevermind.

3 February 2013

Yes, deleted the post before this one. Don’t care. Don’t care about anything anymore, really.

I talked about going through the motions. Four years ago, back when I was feeling the same stupid horrible bullshit that I feel right now because I have gone no where, I think I would have killed, literally killed, to be able to function. Bare hands killing. I would have walked up to someone on the street and strangled them if it meant that I would be able to keep going. Because at the end of the day, like that other post revealed, I am a sick disturbed narcissistic fuck. Sometimes it’s like any empathy I have is fake, is really just a way of spinning things back to me. Me me me me me me me me. Always me. And why? Am I worthy of a fucking syllable? No. I haven’t done shit to deserve your syllables.

Food has become a thing again. That’s very vintage, a true throwback to my sad little past. Being 13 and praying to fit into a size 2 but only getting to size 4 and acting like oh thank God, now we’re good, that’s a real accomplishment, that’s given the world something, me being a size 4. I’m like a goddamned 13 now. And oh, it’s so fucking poetic, isn’t it? Make yourself as small as you can. Make yourself invisible. Waste away, a slow passive death. It’s not really suicide, right? Ah, it’s poetry. Fucking poetry. Fuck poetry.

Nobody reads this, and I don’t care. No, I do care. Part of me cares and is disappointed and sad and it feels like somebody beat my self-esteem to death with a pipe all the time. But I guess I can’t blame people. This isn’t like a novel. It doesn’t wrap up in the end because it never fucking ends.

My mind snapped. Everything drained out of it. There was nothing there. I freaked out. “Oh my God. There’s nothing in my head. There’s nothing in my head. There’snothinginmyheadohmygodhelpme.” I couldn’t sit still. It was like I was being cooked on a stove and everything was being sucked up by the heat and I was drying out like fucking jerky. A fucking jerk-y piece of jerky. God, I hate myself. This is such a bunch of shit. This is the worst writing I have ever seen.

I can’t fucking stand this anymore. I am too fucking old for this. This is not acceptable anymore.

This was fucking fine and peachy when you’re 14 and everyone feels like shit and, “Oh, they’re at that age.” I’m not that age anymore. But I’m doing the same shit. Breaking down the same way. This horrible hysterical crying. Maybe it is my womb. Maybe it is hysteria. Somebody cut it out of me. I don’t need it. The world does not need more of me.

I feel this sense of betrayal so fucking deep like the world has betrayed me, as if it owed me something. “Life’s not fair” lalala so original. But I just can’t help feeling like It was supposed to get better. And instead of “better” it got “acceptable“. Because now I can go to class. I can go to work. I can go through the motions. I gained a bunch of weight, now I’m hearty and fat and functional. But this is not what I meant. This is not what I meant by “better.” I wanted to be better. This is the same shit through a different lens. This is the same shit.

And if anyone thinks they’re tired of reading this or hearing this or seeing this or of me, fuck you because you couldn’t possibly be any sicker of this and of me than I am. Fuck you.

I am so goddamned tired of doing this. I am so tired. There’s an ache in my bones straining through to the marrow, and maybe that’s where it’s coming from. It’s medieval black bile, pulsing through me. A cancer. Sometimes I wish God would kill me some easier way instead of dragging out the inevitable like this. Fucking asshole. This is going to kill me, and I know it because I feel it, I’ve felt it, ever since I knew this was more than what was normal.

With a few flicks of a pen, psychiatrists made my death inevitable. “Bipolar disorder” in neat little black ink. Or was it blue? I hope it was black. At least give me the fucking good-colored pens to sign my death warrant with. That’s the least the world could do. Blue pens are a disgrace.

Although maybe that would be fitting because I am, too, right?

You give a girl the world, and this is what she does with it. She destroys it.

Oh well, at least I’m alone. At least there are no other planes in the sky below me that I’ll drag down with me. My parents are 6 hours away; they don’t know how I feel. They don’t even know who I am. I have no friends anymore, so there’s not that to worry about. And Allen. Allen will be fine. Allen is always fine. He wakes up in a good mood. I’m thinking about emptiness and bone marrow and methods of suicide, and he’s thinking about rabbits. “What are you thinking?” “I was thinking about rabbits.” Fucking rabbits. He’ll be fine. He’ll be fine if I go.

But will I go?

I guess not. I don’t even care enough to go. Whatever. I’m going whether I want to or not, right? Maybe if something pushes me… I hope nothing pushes me. Or do I hope something does? Do I want to be alive or not? I don’t even know. I don’t want to live or die. I don’t want anything. I don’t feel anything. There is nothing in my head.

The only thing I feel is scared, this crazy primal fear of I don’t know what. Some sort of Freudian neuroses. Maybe it’s because I want to fuck my father, right? That’s what he’d say. Oh God, I’d be a wet dream for Freud. He’d have so much lovely fucking material to fuck with, fucking asshole.

I should be more like Freud. Chainsmoke like a fiend, fall asleep during my analyses, and find a nice little doctor to euthanize me when the cancer eats my jaw away. What a nice life. What a nice death.

I feel… I don’t know. I don’t know what I feel. Everything is ugly, my mind is so ugly and white-washed and empty empty empty. I don’t know how else to explain it because there are no other words in my skull. There’s just nothing in my head. There’s nothing there. There’s Freud and statistics and how to drive and how to put something in the microwave and grammatical structure and movie plots but there is nothing really there. Nothing real. Nothing substantive. Nothing I feel. I don’t feel anything. Just afraid. God, I’m terrified. It’s really fucking horrifying, it really is.

Maybe I should give the school some time if I do decide to do it. Tyler just did it; they’ll start thinking something’s in the water. Maybe it is. That would be nice. A tidy little excuse, maybe even save some lives from the ensuing investigation. That’s a nice little death, right?

No.

There is no nice death. I know that. I know these things. I know a lot of things, but I feel no things. I don’t feel that reality. I don’t feel any reality. I don’t feel anything.

I’m like a balloon. Some little kid’s still holding on to me with sticky little fingers, absentmindedly grasping the string, but soon they’ll let go. They’ll go to pick their nose or grab someone’s pant leg, and they’ll let me go and that will be it. My life feels precarious like that, like something being held by a child.

But I’m holding it right? And I’m a child. Oh, I’m giddy with the metaphoricality of it all.

That’s not a word.

That’s not a fucking word. Fuck.

Fuck it all.

Something’s got to jump out from somewhere, right? Someone will offer me a role in a major motion picture, fat best friend. I’d take a cameo. Or a fucking internship in England, all expenses paid. Someone will hand me a change from this shithole, they’ll hand it to me on a silver platter and that will be all and… Oh goddammit. I have that now, don’t I? It was handed to me on a silver platter, and I still couldn’t take it. I’m a fucking piece of shit. Like, god forbid I have to do anything. Oh, nice platter. Do I really have to reach up and get the things off of it though? I mean, that’s a lot to ask..

I am going completely fucking insane.

And nobody cares anymore.

Go insane once, shame on genetics. Go insane twice, shame on your doctors. Go insane again and again and again and again, shame on you. 8,000 tons of shame on you. Go fuck yourself.

“We tried.” That’s what they’ll say. “We tried. She did, too.” Because, oh, I tried, right? And people will pat my mother’s shoulder and say, “You did everything you could do.” I guess she did. I don’t know what I expect from people. I expect the world from everyone all the time, I guess, and I guess that’s not the way life is.

I guess this is what life is. And I hate it. I hate it so much. And I hate myself so much. And it’s like I haven’t moved an inch. It’s like I’m on a wheel. And I can’t get off. My legs are tired. I’m so tired of this. I’m so tired. God, somebody please make this shit stop.

I just don’t see myself doing this much longer. I can’t keep doing this. Why am I doing this?

You climb a step so you can get to the next one, but you never reach the next floor. You never actually get there, you just get to the next airport or seaport or poor piece of shit situation. And slowly, ever so slowly, the doors close, so silent you can barely hear the click. And the opportunities dissipate. And life goes on for everyone else. Everyone else has everything else. You mean nothing. You are meaningless.

All you can do is keep going, and if you can’t, then you won’t.

Nature is cruel, right?

Yes.

Yes, it is.

Yes.

Written by Cat Posted in days where i was lazy