not. can't. don't.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

i went to see sandra yesterday. i told her that i am at my absolute wits end. i told her how close i am to ending it. and there was something about the way she looked at me. something about something she said. or maybe it was just that i was scared enough, i don’t know. but i went home and took a prozac.

i told her that i am terrified of taking the medicine again. i don’t want to be numb and feel nothing. but i also told her that i feel like i could kill myself on impulse at any moment. i wouldn't even think about it, i’d just do it and it would be over.

i feel like taking the prozac is selling out. it is giving in to what sandra wants and what my mother wants, but it is completely turning my back on what i want. i feel like a total failure. i feel like i should have been able to kill myself.

i don’t trust the idea of taking the medicine, i don’t want to live, i am not committed to getting better or staying alive. i don’t know if i even want to do this. in fact, i don’t really know why i am doing it, but something about the look in sandra’s eyes yesterday...i don’t know.

and i know that if my life doesn’t change, if i am stuck in that horrible apartment for the rest of my life, if i am stuck in this disgusting fat body for the rest of my life, then i don’t want to live. i would be better of just forgetting all of it and killing myself now.

fuck the animals. if it wasn’t for them, i’d be dead by now. if it wasn’t for them, i’d be able to go to festival. but they are all that i have. they are my family. they are my friends. if it wasn’t for them, i’d be completely alone.

i cannot express adequately how much i hate myself. how much i truly detest myself. and i can’t express how painful it is to live every day in this body with this mind and this ugly face. i look at other people, i watch them as they move through their lives. they all look so happy and so comfortable. i know they are not, but i cannot imagine that there is anyone else out there who is as miserable in their skin as i am.

there is a part of me that thinks that maybe i should just stop talking about how depressed i am, stop talking about how unhappy i am and how alone i am. i should just fake it and pretend that everything is ok. and then, everyone would stop worrying and probably stop thinking about me altogether. and then, when everyone was content with the idea that i am ok, then i could go. just disappear. i’d have to make it seem like i just moved away, so no one would be sad or angry. and then it would just be over.