can’t do this



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.


let me go.
let me FREE.

let me not wake tomorrow.

I’m tired of this Battle again.

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



that traffic sure looks mighty fine

why the fuck did I think I could do this?

over the weekend, in an attempt to offer me advice and encouragement, Brian commeneyed, “it’s just like school. so you know what you have to start doing again, right?”  I responded, with mostly sincerity, “cutting…?”
after laughing at the delivery and despite himself, he disagreed. “study.”

and he’s right. except there’s no homework examples to be bringing home; it all must be learnt in the lab. and the entire process is very specific to this firm. they way they have certain accounts broken up, etc.

I can tell my supervisor was very frustrated with my performance this afternoon. I royally fucked up shit. I mean, we got it sorted out. but still, I forced him to have to do twice as much work on a task he shouldn’t have been having to do any.

they want me to become a notary public. this was not mentioned in the job interview. I don’t think I can, on account of the DUIs.

I almost walked in front of a speeding car this afternoon. on purpose. is that being parasuicidal again? I mean, I obviously didn’t do it. but there was a legit jerk in my step wherein I had to remind myself that supposedly suicide is not the answering.

which is fair. because I think suicide is the question. and for me, the answer should be “yes”.
instead, I’ll go home and cut a lot. or drink. (I try not to combine them anymore.) I also intend to make an SI travel pack again — blade, bandaids, and tiny neosporin. stays in the purse. for emergencies of the self-hatred kind.