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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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.

“Caligula would have blushed”

I’m [broken].  Do you get that on any level?  You want me to be normal, and I’m never going to be.

~ Emma, Red Band Society

 

I’m tired, man.  I’m getting really exhausted.  how hard does a person how to fight to live, to wake up?

I was getting dressed this morning.  I put on my bra.  and then I started to put on my pants.  I remembered that with these pants, I actually had to wear underwear (I often go commando) due to comfort reasons; I realised this after the pants were already halfway on.  so that meant I had to undo what I just did, put on underwear, then redo it all over again.

I didn’t have that in me.  I took the pants off and hid under the covers in bed.  I stayed there a good seven or so minutes, because even the prospect of fucking getting dressed was too much for me to handle.

but eventually, I managed.  I got out of bed; I put on clothes; I went to the doctor’s; I went to work; I’m (kinda) doing my job.  and then tonight, I’ll go home; I’ll go to rehab; I’ll play nice; I’ll go home; I’ll pretend to be alive inside; and I’ll cry myself to sleep, again.

I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour;
but heaven knows I’m miserable now.
two lovers entwined, pass me by;
and heaven knows I’m miserable now.
I was looking for a job, and then I found a job;
and heaven knows I’m miserable now.

while merely brushing my teeth last night, while lying in bed afterwards, even when I awoke this morning — I was pondering what tactics would work.  I’d throw pills up; I don’t own a gun; I’d paralyze myself before snapping my neck; I shake too much to cut a straight line.

I suppose carbon monoxide is a maybe; sneak out in the middle of night when no one is paying attention to a running car.  also jumping; that would actually be pleasant; but messy for whoever has to deal with it.

what she asked of me at the end of the day,
Caligula would have blushed.
“you’ve been the House too long”, she said;
and I naturally fled.

a student told me about a childhood friend of his who killed himself Monday.  then he told me how his own father was anti-suicide, calling those who kill themselves cowards.

I got up on my high horse and informed the student that sometimes people suffer so much that finally taking control of their own life is one of the strongest and bravest things they could ever do.  I believe that.  I strongly believe that.

why do I have to be alive for you?  you just want what’s best for me, right?  you want me to stop hurting, to be happy?  this is not happiness; this is pain, this is sorrow, this is longing, and this is regret.  this is despair, hopeless, and self-hatred.  happiness would be ceasing to exist; that would be freedom.

but instead, you not only ask me to stay alive for you, but to also live as you’d like me to, do as you want me to.

so you don’t really want me alive; you just want my life.

in my life,
why do I smile
at people who I’d much rather kick in the eye?

I’m not doing it anytime soon; don’t worry.  the holidays are a horrible time to do this, as it is selfish; it ruins the holiday season for the families.  but I do think I’ll start making my plan.  I seek out proper tools or methods; I’ll find a good location, a good approach.  that way, after all this holiday bullshit is over, after I’ve stayed alive long enough for everyone else, I can make a decision for myself.

in the meantime, I’ll play nice.

after the interactions I’ve had with my counselor this week (I need to write about that later), I’m ready to quit.  I’ll keep aiming for sobriety, sure.  but not because I want it; rather, I’m in the mindset that I need it.

I need it to keep people off my back.
I need it to have people believe I’m getting better.

lyrics courtesy of The Smiths's "Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now"

Sia – “Breathe Me”

Sia – “Breathe Me”

 help,
I have done it again.
I
have been here many times before
hurt
myself again today.
and
the worst part is there’s no one else to blame.

be my friend.
hold me, wrap me up;
unfold me.
I am small
and needy.
warm me up,
and breathe me.

ouch,
I have lost myself again.
lost
myself, and I am nowhere to be found,
yeah,
I think that I might break.
I’ve lost
myself again, and I,
I feel unsafe.

be my friend.
hold me, wrap me up;
unfold me.
I am small
and needy.
warm me up,
and breathe me.

be my friend.
hold me, wrap me up;
unfold me.
I am small
and needy.
warm me up,
and breathe me.

“let their tiny feathers fill disappointment”

why don’t you ever want to play?
I’m tired of this piece of string.
you sleep as much as I do now,
and you don’t eat much of anything.
I don’t know who you’re talking to;
I made a search through every room,
but all I found was dust that moved
in shadows of the afternoon.

and listen,
about those bitter songs you sing —
they’re not helping anything;
they won’t make you strong.

so we should open up the house,
invite the tabby two doors down.
you could ask your sister, if
she doesn’t bring her basset hound.
ask the things you shouldn’t miss:
tape-hiss and the Modern Man,
the Cold War and card catalogues
to come and join us if they can
for girly drinks and parlor games.
we’ll pass around the easy lie
of absolutely no regrets.
and later maybe you could try
to let your losses dangle off
the sharp edge of a century,
and talk about the weather or
how the weather used to be.

and I’ll cater
with all the birds that I can kill,
let their tiny feathers fill
disappointment.
lie down
and lick the sorrow from your skin,
scratch the terror and begin
to believe you’re strong.

all you ever want to do is
drink and watch TV,
and frankly that thing doesn’t really interest me.
I swear I’m going to bite you hard
and taste your tinny blood
if you don’t stop the self-defeating lies you’ve been repeating since the day you brought me home.
I know you’re strong.

hey, asshole

I know I’m often told

that there’s a pot of gold.

but I don’t see a fucking rainbow, and my coffee’s cold.

I know I should be grateful.

I know I’m good and able;

but I don’t have the strength to get up from the kitchen table.