Frankly, I just don’t know where I want to go with this writing today. Usually I don’t, I just know that you’re kind of my like….you’re the place I go when everything is fucked or everything is okay. I’m not okay diary. I’m really really not, It’s all a brain stew of problems and I was so close I was so close to sorting through some deeper trauma before of course, inevitably the popgoestheweasel of my fucking life cropped up.
I haven’t been eating.
I’m sorry, I know I should I KNOW I should but everything in my head is just that stupid static. I’ve been good, yknow? I’ve been well. but then everything I knew got fucked. I can’t talk about it with anyone but you because I don’t want to.
I’m tired of fileting myself to try and convey any of this, to people who no fault of their own are unavailable when it’s raw. Always unavailable. I try really hard diary to listen to others, I do. I used to think that maybe all this was something wrong with me. That maybe I was actually a bad shoulder I forgave myself, I grew up past it.
Once I saw that I wasn’t the problem it hurt. There is nothing in this world that harms me more than seeing how everyone is nakedly. I promised myself I’d start to be honest, to speak plainly, to restrict myself from acting on sudden impulses and urges. I’ve done well, no stalking, no sniping, no actions.
I said my piece then stepped away. It’s that Silent Hill 3 track, “letter”, just started playing. I bet if i took the total time spent listening to that track I’d have beaten that game! I’m just trying yknow? but everyone’s left, or in the process of leaving, always in that twilight of leaving. The security I feel in others needs reaffirming always, that may be on me, but being forgotten is real. Vengeance is bad. We know this. Right, the problems, sorry um.
I got a pretty bad letter, essentially life-wrecking, you know diary but I won’t spell it out. So I had to spend maybe, 4 hours on the phone with various family members, telling the same story, asking for help, getting chastised and finger wagged. Coming to terms with being fucked. The last phone call was a party popper, a poof of “silly! this problem doesn’t really exist! We wouldn’t do that! This problem doesn’t exist and actually you suffering was for nothing! NOTHING!” I feel like my face fell off.
I still do. The shame and utter self hatred I feel is so …. it radiates diary, it throbs. Like a fucking ulcer but in my liver. So I did what any stupid tinkerer girl would and took a bubble bath with mixed drinks and several hours later my head was spinning on the couch as I tried desperately to sleep.
Sounds awful right?
Emily’s better, took me like 300 bucks to get her done but she’s done. Maybe I never mentioned this but I couldn’t get it to go over 65 mph, now it runs great! I haven’t even touched 6th gear once yet! I kinda am too scared to. but it’s melancholic right? I mean now, the projects done. A done project is an end. Maybe I should let her be, should probably take similar advice.
I’m off E.
I know, I know, “what the fuck? You just found stability and had a ratio and everything!” but basically, I want to try and…save what I can diary. You understand, in a few months I won’t be able to go back, so like all good climbers I will have a safety net, if in months time I can’t do the deed then it’s already too late and I’ll accept that. I will close my book and thus my generational tree branch will be all there is. Just a few months, besides I doubt me stabbing myself would be something pleasant to add on top of all this.
Everything else is likely a result of it, the disinterest in music, the urge to shut up like a telescope, only eating dinner, the lack of daydreaming, inability to go past sketches.
The bad: Psyches in shambles, what’s new.
The good: False alarms are better than bad news, I ride my motorcycle every day and I don’t notice any flaws with it (I kinda have my eye on a jacket, yknow the one),I went out and had fun for Halloween.
The best: I feel a lot better having written this, even a lil’ hungry.
I hope you like the sketches.