Depression.
Despair.
Delusions.
They all mean the same to me…
Comfortable Pain March 16, 2009
I never knew there was such a thing. But apparently there is.
You get so used to a pattern of waiting and agonizing, that it becomes comfortable already and hard to leave behind. It’s like a bad habit that you can’t break.
It sucks big time.
And it’s something that I have to circumvent in this tired, old life of mine.
What’s weird is that I am reborn with each passing hurricane. I barely remember anything. I forget the essential things. It’s like The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind kind of thing. Except I don’t run after my memories.
I am feeling confused now as I face another dilemma: transitions. They are here and near and I can’t escape making another choice. The Choice. All over again.
Now I have to weigh things very carefully: what is more important to me, reconstructing my past or building my future?
Right now, I don’t have the answer to that. I live in a universe sandwiched between metaphors and reality. Some would say that the future is more important than the past, but what if the past will hound you still in the future? Isn’t it therefore more important to rebuild that past first?
No matter what path I take, I know I’ll hurt somebody. That’s the suckiest part of it all.
Bipolar April 6, 2008
Getting that high. Wanting you. Having you. Me loving you. You loving me. Everything was perfect. The gears of the world turned just for us and it was euphoric that I had so many things, beautiful things, to say…
Time existed because I needed time to feel this good.
And now, I’m back here where I started.
Scared. Lonely. Pathetic. Getting batshit crazy and paranoid about every little thing. I know I don’t have to keep remembering the past, but I do. Oh and it has driven me insane, painting all the panoramas in my head while extrapolating the whys and hows and whens. When I do not have to know, I do not have to know! I need not know, you tell me, because there’s nothing to say.
Oh and my first instinct when I repeat that phrase in my head is to slam my forehead on the edge of the table until I lacerate my goddamn frontal bone. I want to stop thinking! I need to stop thinking! I keep wishing for a truck to crush my head and me finally finding peace.
I want to rage across my ankles and thighs again! I want a curtain of blood pooling at my feet. If only I would not trespass this week’s wounds. I want to let out every shard of anger and frustration and pour it out when I pour out blood.
I am dying a little each time I cut, oh, and all I can think of now is finding new surfaces to do just that and it is storming in my head, ash and blood, blood and shiny razorblades, blood and bathroom tiles, blood and ivory skin. The marriage is inexplicably beautiful, I tell myself now, but why can’t anybody else see its beauty?
I want to paint again. I want to paint my body scarlet.
And I’ve noticed how when I was in grade school, I’d be happy with a shallow cut or two. But now this: A hundred tiny cuts for each incision, going deeper and deeper and deeper. I dream of lacerations now. Pain, more pain. Make me feel like death. Hurting myself takes away the pain from everything. And I want to see blood, feel it coursing down my skin, see it in my hands.
I don’t cut to die, I cut to make myself numb. Because I cannot take away this unnameable pain. All I can say of it is this harrowing automation curtailing my right to happiness. I want to cut, cut, cut! I want pain and blood and I want to feel nothing! Maybe I was better off on the antipsychotic, because then, I didn’t feel a damn thing.
I am feeling something strange now, a tingling in my stomach and I can feel my tears building up. I can feel a rising obsession at the base of my throat: an obsession with hate.
I scream I hate you at myself and I can feel the scarlet lines calling to make themselves known. When is it ever enough? How deep is too deep? How much blood is too much blood? I cannot wait to find out.
Except one thing, I made a promise to you that I wouldn’t cut myself unless the matter is grave. And this is the problem I was telling you about: What is nothing to you means worlds to me.
I do not know what to do anymore and I’m sorry for the nth time around because I know I’m insane and this wouldn’t happen if I wasn’t.
I’ll talk to my psychiatrist.
Leaving March 10, 2007
Oh and it feels eternal to be walking
In places that don’t change
In rooms that always have a name,
Call out my name, ashen walls
Bare and fading gray,
I am here.
I delight in the length of my scream piercing the satin night,
Or the precision of steel on milk-colored skin.
These are the same, the same themes.
I tell you that you cannot escape these patterns,
for everywhere you go,
It is the same masquerade between life and death.
A tension, a tension, I said.
A serenely tautening string,
Little by little- and snap:
We are here.
You seem to want to find a place
To make believe that paper dolls
Do not fade or burn
The negation of dust: yes, that is what we’re here for.
I am floating above the desert-city,
And I call out by face or by name,
To some semblance of a steadfast thing
To which to cling to
Fade or linger, death and life
Help me choose, help me reach a certainty
For which I alone am the master,
And I alone preside.
I Miss Feeling February 25, 2007
How can I stand here with you,
And not be moved by you?
I plunge into my memories only to find frames. Empty. Nothing. I remember superficial things like the crystalline raindrops on the window panes, the exact day and time, how he said “I missed you,” the intoxication, the alcohol, the exact words that you said: the wind running tangent to my eyes.
But the feeling is locked away, far from me. I can’t feel it again.
It seems that all I do is mourn for me. And that’s the scope of how I feel. I can’t feel anything anymore! I see the images in my head, but it stops there.
This malignancy is frustrating. I feel sub-human. I’m already suicidal, and I’m not kidding. Remember all those time when I muttered ‘kill me!’ or ‘I will die!’? Those are prayers.
Fanatic February 10, 2007
Lately, I feel as if I’m wandering around, just vaguely aware of what I’m doing. No, it’s not like I’m floating. It’s more like I feel like there is a screen between me and my body. I don’t have concrete memories of things I’ve been doing lately. I remember them somewhat, but they’re not as real to me.
Strange. Weird. Scary.
And yet strangely, it’s saving me day by day.
—
Thesis isn’t done.
I’m flunking Organic Chemistry.I wonder if I’ll make it. If I do, it’s Bora time.
But if I don’t…
I don’t want to wonder just yet on what I’ll do.
I feel numb mostly. I don’t know if I’m lonely or if I just want to be alone.
—
I gave Tinkerbelly a bath yesterday and I used strawberry shampoo.Now she’s like a soft, fat, fluffy tube that grabs french fries from my hand.
Anger Management January 16, 2007
I’m too.goddamn.angry.that.everything.pisses.me.off.
I was fine. Then that small, seemingly insignificant thing makes me plunge into the hottest of rage. Now I’m back here where the furnace feeds on the most trivial.little.fuckin.things.
Take for example, the video on the news showing policemen beating a large snake they found. Why.are.people.so.goddamn.narrow-minded?! It hurts. It screams. I hate it. I hate it. I hate people that do not even attempt to try, even for a second, to understand. It makes me crazy with anger and hate and somehow all hate comes back to me.Tell me! I need to know! Tell me who I am! Tell my why, why, why!
This is why I can’t goddamn study: because I’m too unfocused and distracted and oh, these emotions scream to be felt right now.
I am a hundred thousand questions.
I am a blank in between.
I am unknown and alone and crying and screaming for help.
Go away.
Go away.
Take it away.
Take it ALL away.
Detonate January 13, 2007
The dangers of disbelief are more real to a mind that knows annihilation as the only way out.
