14 September 2010

Reunited

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.

(underbed stor)age