Ed. Note: I wrote this yesterday. I do not feel this way today. The entry above this one discusses how I feel today–which is much better than yesterday.
I woke up feeling extremely sad today. There are reasons for it, some known to me and some unknown. At any rate, I have been teary-eyed all day. This isn’t your every day ” I got the blues” kind of sad, either. It’s the “I feel it so deep in my gut, the pain is tearing me apart” kind of sad.
It’s the “I wanna crawl into my bed and not come out ever again” kind of sad. Which, if you think about it, is ironic because I hate going to bed. It’s the place of much of my frustration, and yet, I continue to hope that I can find sweet oblivion there.
I want to slit my wrist (only the right one. I don’t want to mess up the tat on my left forearm) and let the blood run freely. I want to wash down a handful of pills with a glassful of bourbon and let my demons finally take control.
I ran a few errands today. When I got back, I sat in the garage with the car idling. I had the garage door closed, and I was so fucking tired. It would have been so fucking easy to close my eyes and let the darkness just take me away. I saw the death membrane shimmer as it called to me. How easy it would have been to say, “I give up. You win. Take me.”
I hate myself today. I hate myself with a deep, abiding passion. I hate everything about myself. I hate being fat and ugly and worthless and needy and so goddamn fucking broken. I hate being a freak, an oddity, an outlier, an outsider.
I should never have been born. It was a fucking mistake, or someone’s idea of a cruel joke.
It hurts. Living hurts. My body hurts. My cats walking on me physically hurts (and they only weigh nine pounds (Raven) and ten and a half pounds (Shadow), respectively). The sunshine hurts my eyes. The world hurts my heart.
I love my friends. I love my family (most of it). I love my cats. It’s me I don’t love. And, it’s me I cannot leave. If I could, I would step out of my body and discard it by the wayside. If I could, I would strip my soul from me and get rid of it, too. If I could, I would scrub my brain of all the bad memories and toss them, too. Then I realized that if I did all that, there wouldn’t be anything left of me.
Which is kind of the point of this post.
My novel for NaNoWriMo is a murder mystery involving six women who have been abused in their childhoods and adulthoods as well. They are all based on women I know. Because I am an egoist when I write, the protagonist is an incarnation of me. As I write, I am saddened by how many women (men, too, but I am focusing on women here) have experienced something similar to what I went through. Not every girl has felt the utter betrayal of having a loved one violate her, thank god. It’s not even the majority of girls, but it’s way too fucking many, regardless.
How the fuck can people do that to each other, to little children, to their children? How do we as a country not say, “Enough, goddamn it. We will not tolerate this bullshit any more!”? I mean, we say we are all about the children (Who will think of the children????) and yet, nothing could be further from the truth.
But I digress. I do not want to go off on a political rant because that, too, would be too easy. When I am feeling vulnerable and yucky, I rant about something political. I have a soft spot for underdogs, and it’s always easier for me to get angry on the behalf of others rather than myself. Why? Because I am not worth it, remember? Try to keep up with me here. In addition, they are all stand-ins for me. When I say it’s not right that all those girls have been molested, I really mean it wasn’t right for me to have been molested, but I don’t feel entitled to say that yet.
I don’t feel entitled to much of anything right now. My sleep has been even shittier than ever, which is saying quite a bit. I can’t think–which always makes me unhappy. One of the few things I have always liked about myself is my intelligence. When I can’t think, I feel as if I’ve lost everything.
I can tell I’m depressed because the day is flat. No matter how bright the sun shines or how nice the people are, everything is gray to me. I had to put on the mask in order to do my errands, but it didn’t fit quite right. I felt as if I didn’t know the script any longer.
I know what I *should* do to get out of this depression. The problem, quite frankly, is that I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to keep on slogging, keeping my eye on the prize, learning to love myself, etc. I know that I can’t go back to my old way of being, and I don’t want to learn a new way. In short, I am not sure I want to choose life at all.
Right now, I don’t see the point to living. I can’t live for other people, though how my death would impact others is a big reason I haven’t killed myself to this point. I can’t live for my cats, though I would have a very hard time leaving them in the care of someone else. I can’t live on the belief that some day, I will get through this. I will be better. I will be stronger. I will survive. My friends keep telling me this, and it doesn’t ring true for me.
How do they know? How can they say for sure that I will survive this intact? More importantly, how can they guarantee that I will be better for the experience and not worse? No one can say for sure because the future is unpredictable. The one thing I know is that nothing ever stays the same. Today has been a very mean day, and it’s not even half over.
I am not going to kill myself. That would require more will and more energy than I currently have. However, I am losing faith that there is a reason for me to live. My demons are currently kicking my nonexistent ass, and I am defeated.