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I'm starting another diary because my first one was drunk and angry and my second one was a cohesive self-narrative that eventually fell apart and turned stupid and ugly. This one will probably turn ugly too and I'll abandon it, but I'm posting just to pretend like my thoughts matter- because internet validation makes things matter, right? Because we've just GOT to say everything on our minds and inside thoughts just can't be good enough staying inside, can they? Already off to a lovely start. I know why I'm doing this. I'm lonely and I want to reach out- it's simple enough. I don't feel good. It's okay, it's just a basic human instinct. But, if this is what being human means, I don't like it very much. And I know no one is going to read any of this or care and it's just going to help kill me even more, but oh well. I do this to myself. I don't know how I survived to be this old. I don't know how I'm going to survive to be any older.
I feel exhausted. I feel like something has got my mind in a vise and I can't think the way I want to- I just sit in front of the computer with this interesting prompt or the story I started the other day and I get nowhere. I stare at the screen. I climb all the way up to type in my parent's walk-in closet to escape the noise and interruptions of my brothers and I end up putting the computer down to scroll my phone and watch stupid videos about mbti AGAIN and that's not what I really want to do, but I can't seem to stop myself. I come all the way up here and my brother comes up here to to *** around in my parent's bathroom instead of using his own bathroom.
There's too much time and it's all bad.
I caught myself in the mirror and the bags under my eyes are dark and puffy- I look unwell. I always look unwell these days and every time I look in the mirror, even when I'm feeling rarely good, I'm reminded that I'm just oozing a certain brokeness that follows me around and I can't escape it and no, it doesn't feel good. I dress all in black before I can stop myself.
I felt briefly okay when I forced myself to write creatively and work on my lesson plans for hours upon hours several days ago, for two days in a row- endless streams of productivity and eye strain saved me from drinking and despair. But, the second you stick me back into this household, back into my usual routine, I break- mindless entertainment and drinking. Exercise that only serves to exhaust me and food that weighs me down.
When I was working in the library or the cafe, I at least got to feed off my perceptions of other's fantasies of me: I look young in my sweats and I am working diligently with a backpack. I must be a dedicated college student with that serious expression, journaling and taking notes- I've got a 'professional wordsmith' sticker on my computer and a philosophy magazine out while I down coffee after coffee- I must be a creative and an academic. How cerebral! I must be passionately throwing myself into my studies and work- I must be that kind of person. An outsider, but successful in my own outsiderness. But, when I get home, I am not a dedicated young academic outsider, no, I am just me: A sensitive and lonely procrastinator without the beneficial idealism of youth and I just struggle and struggle and struggle. And I desperately WANT to be that other self, but the second other people aren't watching me, I'm stripped raw back into who I really am and I just spiral.
I can't leave today because I need to be 'responsible'- I need to help my brother if he has another panic attack in the absence of my mother. There's too much time and I can't do the things that need to be done and I can't leave.
There are so many things I should be doing: reading my philosophy texts, reading my library books, working in my sketchbook, going for another walk, putting together one of the miniatures my mom gave me for my birthday last year, calling a friend, drinking more water, charging my ipod, putting away my clothes, attempting to continue one of my stories- but, it's like I can't move.
Maybe I'm haunted by the fact that I DID have two good days of writing and pretending to be this idealized self and it felt good- but, it didn't last. I was reminded that my fantasy version of my friend didn't exist and that unfortunately she was real and has many many flaws that tear me apart (and she reminds me that I have many many flaws that tear ME apart), I was reminded that despite all my effort I put into lesson planning it can still end in disaster, I was reminded how inadequate I still am as a teacher, I was reminded how out of shape I was- I was just reminded and reminded and reminded. Reality hit me like a kick in the face and I never prepare myself enough for it- I have no shield. It's like I'm stupid enough to invite it so it happens every time- the takedown. The way I come home at the end of the day to self-sabotage further because I hate my life and I hate myself. The drinking, the self-harm, the isolation, the mindless entertainment to keep me distracted enough so I end up not following through with even more self-destructive fantasies.
I catch myself going around the house with vicious insults directed toward myself for no good reason- but, I can't stop. The negativity is an artery that I've hit and I cannot stop the endless bleeding. It's compulsive and angry. If I tried to address it, I would only grow angrier.
So, what am I so angry about? I'm angry that my fantasy I lived for two days fell apart so easily. I'm angry that my lesson plans I spent so many hours on didn't go well. I'm angry at how easily my job gets to me and ruins my energy and happiness. I'm angry that I didn't work harder while at work. I'm angry that my friend finally texted back and only reiterated that she'll never say the things I need her to say or be the person I need her to be. I'm angry that I'm not getting anything out of my writing. I'm angry that others are getting more attention than me on 7cups. I'm angry that I keep falling back on stupid bad habits. I'm angry that I can't find relief in fiction anymore. I'm angry that I can't seem to concentrate on things that really matter to me. I'm angry that I'm stuck here at the house all day. I'm angry that I didn't do anything I enjoyed today. I'm angry that I'm wasting yet another Saturday. I'm angry that I'm not feeling better. I'm angry that I'm not making better choices. I'm angry that I'm not a better friend. I'm angry that I'm not a better: writer, artist, linguist, teacher, student, philosopher, daughter, niece, granddaughter, sister.
What the *** can I even do with all this anger and disappoint I have towards myself??
I could journal: I'm already doing that and I HAVE been doing that. I could exercise: I did that today and my thoughts harassed me the entire time and now I'm exhausted as well as angry. I could do something nice for myself: I gave myself space to journal, write poetry, make pancakes, make tea, take a shower, text a friend, do some online research to better understand myself and advice on how to be better, do laundry so I have clean sheets and cloths, exercise, set myself up in a good environment to write- all these *** opportunities to enjoy myself or feel good and it's one brick wall after another and I cannot escape how not-good I am feeling. Well, maybe I need to focus on the feeling. I DID. Maybe I need to escape it- I DID. Nothing works, nothing f*cking works.
Maybe I'll go for a walk in the freezing cold. Maybe I'll put my clothes away. Maybe I'll lay in bed.
They say that life is a gift, but I never asked to be born.
