can’t do this

I CAN’T DO THIS.

I’m tired of the NOISE.  so tired of THE LOUD-ASS NOISE THAT FUCKING ECHOES IN  YOUR GODDAMN HEART.  IN YOUR FUCKING MIND.

We throw tantrums like parties.
We’re not happy ’til everyone knows we’re SICK.
And that’s just how we like it.
We’ve hurt Bad enough, right?  We’ve Earned it.
Don’t tell the others, but it’s all getting old.
you can hear It.  It Breathes against you.  It Breathes in spite of you.  you are merely a Pawn in Its creation.
I mean, how many more times must our stories be told?
And being lonely’s only fun in a group;
It sort of loses it’s charm when it’s true.
you can’t do anything against its noise and chaos and pain and hate and loudness and rage and anxiety and compulsions and noise and paranoia and eating disorders and thoughts and opinions and concerns and just everything.  there is too much.  and the Mind never stops.  NEVER STOPS.
So now you know all my secrets.
I want out; I know I don’t need this.
Can you find me friends that don’t rank me on what I’ve been through?
The more battle scars, the more attention it gets you.
Don’t tell the others, but it’s all getting old.
but I Like it; rather I  Need it.  I hold on to it.  I don’t move past it.  because I’m scared about what’s beyond me, what’s More than me, what is -Without Me-.
I meant it when I said,
“I wanna get well! I wanna get well!”
Are the rest of you so content?
Stay where you are, but it hurts like hell.
And I’m sure it’s fun at first;
test your pulse, and check your vitals.
If it’s only a Game, you lost me.
I quit it with the Suicidal Recital.

shit.  I can’t even pretend I know the original direction this post was going in…..
I was lost.  hopeless.  depressed.  so many of those Old and Comforting Feelings I had.  but Brian suggested I Write instead of mope.  Write.  how often do I Write anymore?  and what of that which I Write even matters anymore?  I mean, none of it really.  at least back then, it was the Truth as per a small child whose life was important.  now I’m adult who’s thrown off on her own and matters not.
Yeah, we should’ve known it would End this way.
What did you expect? — pretend it all Away?
And all we’ve got left is a sorry pile of hearts.
I’m getting out — gonna write myself a new Start.
Come on, dry your eyes, meet me on the other side.
Run as fast as you can, and we’ll make it out alive.
We know better now; we don’t have to live like This.
Go tell them all we don’t have to live like This.

SURPRISE ME.

let me go.
let me FREE.

https://www.youtube-nocookie.com/embed/Z9fGKx7yzF4?rel=0

let me not wake tomorrow.

I’m tired of this Battle again.

it’s the same War I’ve been fighting for so long.

LET ME GO!!!

 

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a non-typical post about Panic Attacks

so first, let’s understand a typical panic attack:

“a sudden feeling of acute and disabling anxiety.”  that’s the general definition.  when people think of “panic attacks”, they see Monk freaking out.  how cute, right?

but real panic attacks are more than just that.

and then there are the atypical panic attacks.  the ones that happen in the mind and never manifest outside the body.  I just had one.  I was sitting here, trying to coordinate my route and plans at home.  and inside my Mind, I lost my damn Shit.  externally, no one would have seen anything; I seemed fine.  I was in control of all my motors, and I wasn’t babbling some incoherent shit.  but inside of my head, LIGHTS WERE GOING OFF THAT SET OFF ADDITIONAL ALARMS AND EVERYTHING WAS SHUTTING DOWN AND I CAN’T DO THIS!!

and then, after several minutes, it stopped.  and now …. now that I am ready to write about it, I can’t.  so there goes that fucking useful as shit entry…….

Things of Note

Things of Note

  1. I’m not dead.
  2. Also, despite my desires, I’m not dead.
  3. My computer, and all other electronics, hate me.
  4. My computer is dead.
  5. My phone likes me — for some reason that fucking no one knows….
  6. However, my phones does not hold much battery life for too long.
  7. My phone is constantly dying (of battery life, mind you; not like some abusive shit).
  8. I cannot find another way to post.  SEE ALSO:  well, fuck
  9. Maybe I should go to my apartment complex’s computer lab.
  10. And post all of my drama there.
  11. Though, that would allow people in my complex to potentially read it all.
  12. Assuming they can do even minor computer hacking.
  13. Which most people cannot do.
  14. But I really don’t want to risk it….
  15. So yeah, sounds like a bad idea.
  16. Moving on….
  17. INSTEAD:
  18. Let’s just use my phone to make those posts.
  19. Oh right, my phone does not hold battery life.  (see #6)
  20. So maybe I can post on my phone, at home, via the wifi, while it’s plugged in
  21. Wait … fuck — my stupid thumbs are almost as clumsy as I am, so most posts will read as this: “bnngdsaluihtogisrheguids hfusihg diuhfg uisrhgf
  22. Yeah, I couldn’t understand that either….  :/

 

 

 

 

TOO LONG, DIDN’T READ:  TLDR

I really suck at this “writing on a regular schedule” thing.

erg.

SEE ALSO:  fuuuuuuuuuck.

my mad world

all around me are familiar faces,
worn out places, worn out faces.
bright and early for the daily races
going nowhere, going nowhere.
their tears are filling up their glasses.
no expression; no expression.
hide my head, I wanna drown my sorrow.
no tomorrow; no tomorrow.
sorry about cutting.  about saying how maybe I was done.  guess I didn’t actually say I was.  because I’m not.
have great night.
see you tomorrow.  just with more lacerations.
children waiting for the day they feel good.
happy birthday; happy birthday.
and to feel the way that every child should;
sit and listen, sit and listen.
but honestly, I will be here tomorrow. so please, don’t call the cops….
I have enough trouble lined up with them as is.

you want a *TW*? well, have one here.

I want to tear at my skin.

I want to take blade and just RIP it through each tiny thread of fabric of my substance that my body calls a Barrier and pull it apart.
every piece of life has a slip of skin.
I feel each string just tear the fuck apart when I cut.
there is a disconnect, an abandonment, a fucking Freedom.
yet, a forever Loss.

I want to bleed.
I want to open my Hide, and from there I see a red stream trickling down my thigh — or breast or arm or leg or stomach or wherever, depending on my affliction at the time.

I want to Hurt; I want to fucking Feel.
because it makes me real, it makes me actual — not just a goddamn statistic anymore.
I spend so much of this life feeling like I’m pretending, I’m faking, I’m applauding while appalling and generally alluding to Living,

yet never actually Leaving.

I am getting near Done.

I hear Him cry.
my Cat. my Child. my true Love.
I hear how He bellows when He feels alone because the doors are closed and He can hear and see no one and feels so alone.

but we all make that noise.
and so few hear.
and those of us who do, we are expected to Ignore it.

would I say these things “sober” (I’ve had two drinks)?
would I say these things in company of others (my boyfriend and couch-surfer friend are at Taco Bell)?
would I say these things if I knew someone was looking over my shoulder (when are we Alone versus just alone?)?

no.
because we never say what we need to when someone is actually Listening….

we are nasty naturally self-destructive creatures.  and we should be forsaken.

 

yet instead, we talk.  we converse.

to ourselves, of course.

and sometimes, to one another.

to people of the same goddamn circle.

the same fucking circle

who can’t fucking do shit.

 

 

all these fancy pretty blogs that have gifs and images to break up the seriousness of their topics.  you want a picture?  well, fucking choke on this — it’s called the goddamn truth:

credit unknown(credit unknown) 

not Enough

I’ve not ruined my life enough to be an addict.
I don’t drink enough to be an alcoholic.
I don’t binge, purge, or restrict enough to have an eating disorder.
I don’t cry enough to have depression.
I don’t cycle enough to be bipolar.
I don’t have enough attacks to have anxiety.
I don’t count or wash enough to be OC.
I don’t reach out enough to be Borderline.
I don’t try hard enough to be Better.
I don’t exercise enough to be a fit freak.
I don’t volunteer enough to be selfless.
I don’t push enough to be a leader.
I don’t get distracted enough to have ADHD.
I don’t play enough to be a gamer.
I’m not tough enough to be a tomboy.
I’m not erratic enough to be insane.
I’m not stable enough to survive.

I don’t fit in; I don’t belong.

I’m just not Enough of anything.

a Beau post

he’s hurting.  he’s struggling.  he’s working harder than I’ve ever seen before.  if only he had did this sooner.

Beau is not going to get his PhD.  we both know that.  I think I know that better than him.  because I have seen what is takes, and I’ve seen what he gives — and he never gives enough.

and I don’t think that’s his fault.  I just think he never improved.  (yes, I’m a fan of philosophies that are more semi-Thomas_Hobbes-influenced than otherwise (people are born “bad/evil”); so sue me.)

I had more thoughts on this, that were really provoking and intelligent.  but after I went piss and came back to the computer and looked up how to spell Thomas’s last name, I forgot it all.

I blame it on the alcohol.

anyway.  I can’t do anything for Beau.  he’s over there literally crying because he believes he’s going to fail.  if he were only like me and had accepted it already, he’d be moving on to find jobs wherein he and i won’t live in poverty at my parents’ old rickety, condemned trailer.  (no, seriously.  let me tell you about it one day!)

but until then, I will support his efforts.  I won’t agree with his efforts, but I will usually support them.  and I will always support Him.