My shrink tells me I should start this again, this thing I used to do when I had more time on my hands, when I was a little happier, though these dark, creeping vines have always been there beneath my constructed bliss.
I don't really know if I know how to write anymore. I barely know how to express myself in words anymore. I used to be so fluent with them, painting whatever I felt, I literally thought in words, walking through moments making similes and taking photographs to make descriptions out of. Now I don't know how to think without silences, and blank spaces, and it's this constant lethargic state in which I can feel time slip through my fingers but I barely register anything, what I feel, what I want, what I need to do. My mother often says I'm depressed, I'm unproductive, that I need to get out of my room. I do want to get out of my room. I desperately want to get out of my room, my house, my city, I need it, I need to lose myself to find myself. Even though I've left high school, and I am what everyone would call an adult, working and paying taxes and studying, I feel terribly, terribly lost, as though I'm looking for something but I can't remember exactly what it was. And it's always like this, and I'm so sick of it. feeling like every second is a picture too under-exposed, or it came out blurry or with too much film grain, No matter how happy I am, I'm never exactly happy, the picture is always slightly out of focus, or the colors are slightly too cold, or the faces are a little too washed out.
But it seems it's always been this way, just that I never let it show. I used to bury it with sex and things I'd never do, now I do it with alcohol. I would force myself to go out, and put on a grand smile for everyone to see, and pretend that I was perfectly happy with the relationship I had, that I had the perfect social life, and the perfect partner, and the perfect life. And even if taking drugs and getting drunk and going to anywhere I could go to leave my house made me nervous to no end, I would still go. To feel like I was winning. Winning what? I was always so competitive, that when I didn't have anyone to compete with, I would feel almost empty. Like I was losing. I quite possibly kept up my relationship because I didn't want to lose, and I am pretty sure I was sorrier about losing than actually losing him.
Funny huh? He probably knew I was gay before I was. And for that I thank him with my very soul, because he ended it when I never could. I wasn't strong enough to lose, to admit defeat, even if it would help me grow, and make me feel better.
I'm sick of medication. I hate feeling like I can't do anything without something else making me get out of bed every morning. I want to get out of bed by myself, and walk and talk and feel good by myself, I want to be able to talk to people without feeling uncomfortable in my skin, I want to put on makeup not because I have to but because I want to. This thing, whatever it is, is eating me up to the point where I don't remember who or what I was before this empty canvas and white walls. I don't remember what it felt like to feel inspired, to be enveloped in bliss, to see stars. Everything is just an empty sky, a tea that's a bit too cold, a perfume that's not sweet enough or a song that ends in the wrong chord. I hate it.
It's now a warm night and most of the sky has cleared up. I have to get ready yet again, and try to function like a normal person again. And I honestly don't, I can't find the will in me to leave this room and have to deal with men flirting and people talking loudly and deafening music.
But I have to. I have to get better. I want to eat things without them tasting like old paste. I want to paint images with words and photos again. I want to stop harming myself and decorating my arms with red and blue. I want to get better.POSTED BY little girl blue ON Saturday, December 20, 2014 @ 9:22 PM
