It brings me great sadness to admit that I have returned back here. I feel ashamed for many reasons and helpless.
On many levels, many wrongfully so, I feel hurt and want desperately for a reminder of love, of warmth, of something. Just a hug, I think, because I am trembling, lost, and alone again.
Many things are excruciating to me, and knowing that I am insufficient, inconsiderate, and cruel hurts me more. I didn't mean to create more trouble--I was scared of myself--I feared the thoughts of self-harm and mustered some weak false courage to come to you, in hopes that you could remind me.
Of course I am ashamed. I'm sorry. I know that I say that I am sorry all the time now, every night now, that I am constantly realizing that I am inconsiderate and unkind. And it eats me inside, for me to know that I'm doing that when I do not mean to--when I am just inept in my attempt to ask for love. I am pathetic. A none-withal. I feel useless, a detriment in this space. I do not deserve to be here.
I fear myself.
Very plainly so, more than anything, I want to take my utility Shun knife and make neat slits. I see the image of this so crisply in my mind--the way the skin lends itself, and how the within brims forth. I want the pain to stop. I do not think I can bear my own pain and then the added pain of knowing that I not only do not repair, but that I do more harm in my attempt to selfishly ask for help.
It kills me.
I feel so desperate, and alone. I hate that I feel alone, that I was foolish to think it would be different, that someone would want to help me, to be here with me. I hate my realization. I hate my childish complaint, my whining, my pathetic dramatic drivel.
I do not deserve to share this space, to exist in this place. I am not meant to be here. I wanted more than anything to have some reassurance. For absolution, for permission. But I continue to fail.
I tried to talk myself out of doing anything. I came back upstairs, to remove myself from the proximity of the kitchen. I really feel so alone.
Gutted.
I do not want to wake up. I fear the waking up, the return. I do not want to come back. I am a visitor here, and all I want to do is just go home.
But I think I have to sew the seams, to keep in line, to stay through it for just one year. I am a fool; I make the same mistake over and over; I am the only one who wounds me.
I'm glad that I came here, though. Because then I got to read two emails just sent from my professor calling himself an 'ambassador of blue cheese' (essentially). Thanking me for helping him in the office today--expressing his gladness that I'm in his class.
It may seem like a small thing, but I think it helped me come back. It helped me to remember that there are people whom I love, to whom I mean a great deal. I cannot end my life knowing that. I owe it to them to stay alive.
I am sorry I am weak, and annoying in my complaint. I do not know how to struggle, alone. I lose against myself.
Please do not let me wake. Let it not be my doing, let me not wake.