Wretched is such a despicable, pitying word. I loathe it so much that to utter it is to have bile rise against my throat.
I feel it coming back--that shroud, that fine netting. It's not as intense, but perhaps, even more alarming for me because now, even though I have not resigned myself to it--I do not want to have anyone help me. I'm being punished. Am I doing the punishing, or am I further punishing myself?
It is strange now. I feel like a self-made prisoner; I am self-conscious here--I want to go defeated, cease from writing here. But I can't. Instead, there's self-disgust & the usual friends.
Waking up is like this: Obligatory, and when my feet hit the cherry wood floors, I am immediately jolted by the sheer blunt force of gravity bowling me over. Gravity submitting me to my grave. Unbearable is not even the word.
I can't bear to be around people again. And I don't want to talk to you. Everything, once again, has become so heavy--this fucking 9.8 m/s/s thwarts me for fun. Beats me with a stick.
I can't bear it. To have this come back. I have an idea of why it's here--and then I'm resentful for reasons which I'm in denial. It's all confusing, and tiring, and I'm emotionally drained. I can barely maintain my usual demeanor at school and class--it's not a matter of energy; I am well-rested not more overworked than normal--but I can't maintain the normal plateau of my character.
I'm walking through a bog with stumps. The nerves, sensitive to air, and thus everything is magnified. It's unbearable. I hate that I'm here again. I haven't yet started sobbing randomly yet. I know when the tide will come. Instead, there is the emptying of the void to further accentuate the lack.
I fear, on another field, that things are reverting. Reverse plate tectonics, and I don't have the energy to do what I've been doing for so long--I can't give, I can't continue to let my chest fill up with that pathetic music of great feeling--I hate myself.
To say that it hurts right now, is inconceivable. Bowling is a word.
I can't do this--be alone here, and there, and to have to constantly tread to retrieve. I do deserve what I give; I have wrought too much wrong. I am foolish to believe that I deserve what I think I give.
This sounds dramatic, but I do not remember what the lightness of laughter feels like. It's only been 2 weeks, and the descent is already so incomprehensible. I'm not lost but forgotten. I'm irrelevant.
I shouldn't have dared to hope or dream. I am responsible for all the messes.
It touches me that Natalie/Justin, Jason, Andre try to realign me; they worry, they care. I can't even bear this--I can't do anything, and I want to do nothing.
Oh, I remember now: I don't even want this to go away. I'm not resentful of its presence; I am resentful of community around me (close and far). This is a dangerous thing. The descent is voluntary. I am not blindfolded. I hold no hand, and the derisive laughter I hear, is the sound that will later come out from my mouth.
My writing isn't suffering. I generally am satisfied with what I'm producing--it's different from what I've done in the past, and each project varies from the previous. There appears to be progress, even if only lateral. I am fearful of losing this. I already have a sieve for hands.
Solitude and lamentation are words. Do regress. Go back to your lives, your routines. I do not melt here; my body eats itself in. There is noting to save.
I look the same, but my skin is cake batter. You could sigh, but I've already dissembled myself.
It feels funny. Funny like I don't feel as though I exist, but I'm still watching myself walk and hurt from gravity.
I'm trying to drown myself so that I can feel like a balloon. Not high, but light. Surreally trapped and absurdly ridiculous.
Hate is not a word. Inversion as retribution.
I'm not sure how I can go on, but I know that this will happen/is happening.
I'm not at risk, but it's more frightening than anything else: I see still terror and blood in things. Natalie wanted to come over and keep my company since I couldn't bring myself to go outside, and while on the train home before she came, all I could see in my head was the image of us reading in separate rooms with open doors and my eyes were shiny and my wrists had neat slits and a thick cord of blood pooling from me.
Today I walked 30 minutes to a small gallery and lines of a poem kept jabbing me, so I wrote them down, as they came, every 7 minutes or so. It's my duty--to retain what escapes. But the whole time, I was so resentful of my words, of this poem wanting to be written (the child, reminding the parent to leash it, feed it, clean it) that I wanted with the sheer force of my will--to be immediately smacked by a bus pummeling quick. To listen for my grave with my cheek on the floor. The pool of blood would hide under the bus, so the color in autumn would be mundane.
I've lost the brilliant rhythm of swimming after Friday. Everything continues to spit in my face. I'm pretty defiant, so I kept coming back to the pool, and today it tried to choke me underwater. I lost the rhythm. Now it just feels like suffocation while sweating, except no one can tell you're sweating. Pool deaths are so quiet and full at the same time.
I cannot cohere because I am shattered--I try to remember the parts from each fragment, but I can only manage this. It might sound strange, or terrible perhaps, but it's not. I carry it, I'm okay--I can carry it like I've carried that other thing, which I think I'm still carrying, but am not sure why.
I'm sure the bag of groceries will disappear and I'll forget that I was holding it. My brain loses.
I wish you didn't do this to me. I know it was me, I made it myself. Where do I put it, if I cannot bear it?
