It is another one of those nights, where I can't sleep. It is another one of those rare nights, where I feel so bad that I start writing without putting in my contact lenses first. I don't look at the screen, but I try to make out what the poorly lit letters on my keyboard mean. More from my memory than from actual sight, but my memory is good, so I don't make too many mistakes. I don't really have the energy to leave my bed to put in my contact lenses, nor do I see the point. I just want to say something:
I feel like leftover pizza. The crust of something that once seemed to be appetizing. The worst part being that it is not going to get any better, not by my own doing. I know that it's going to get worse before it can get better. Why is that would you probably ask? Because of many things, too many things at once. One of the reasons is that I know what is to come and my anxiety is having a lot of fun with me right now because of that. As I go through the motions of trying not to spiral by mself, I can hardly see any difference at all.
I have self-destructive tendencies. Not the one's you see right away, so I can continue to seem healthy and relatively put together for the rare social event I might attend. I am good at putting on masks.
It is the endless pit that I am. I require two things on a fairly regular basis in order to function properly, one of which has been taken from me due to injury, the other has been forcing me into a dark corner mentally. My obligations all seem overwhelming and my moments of real escape are too few. Every whatsapp group is too much right now - I want to leave them all. Facebook is sending me notifications from people I've never heard of. I wonder what algorithm they're using for people, whose posts never circulate very far and generally stay uncommented. I post things anyway, it is my sole resistance. I am the ghost of facebook, of blogspot, of whatsapp. I see and yet I don't comment. I make statements rather than that.
My father has been dead for fifteen years this week, my mother is going to the hospital next week and my brother needs a royal invitation to visit. All I've gotten was excuses, when all I've wanted was attention. Yet the only person to genuinely enjoy my presence I don't get to see much and manage to push away in my absurdity few can actually understand. None of the people that have gotten to know me recently know that I've not been like this forever. I lost my faith when I was a kid. I lost my mind when I was an adult. I've never been happy since 2003, never content since 2015. Pushing myself out of bed to fight, but I keep losing. Losing until I break and can fight no more.
The government is after my money. My doctor is on vacation and my neighbours are harassment. My place of solitude has become a prison once again.
I feel like leftover pizza. The crust of something that once seemed to be appetizing. The worst part being that it is not going to get any better, not by my own doing. I know that it's going to get worse before it can get better. Why is that would you probably ask? Because of many things, too many things at once. One of the reasons is that I know what is to come and my anxiety is having a lot of fun with me right now because of that. As I go through the motions of trying not to spiral by mself, I can hardly see any difference at all.
I have self-destructive tendencies. Not the one's you see right away, so I can continue to seem healthy and relatively put together for the rare social event I might attend. I am good at putting on masks.
It is the endless pit that I am. I require two things on a fairly regular basis in order to function properly, one of which has been taken from me due to injury, the other has been forcing me into a dark corner mentally. My obligations all seem overwhelming and my moments of real escape are too few. Every whatsapp group is too much right now - I want to leave them all. Facebook is sending me notifications from people I've never heard of. I wonder what algorithm they're using for people, whose posts never circulate very far and generally stay uncommented. I post things anyway, it is my sole resistance. I am the ghost of facebook, of blogspot, of whatsapp. I see and yet I don't comment. I make statements rather than that.
My father has been dead for fifteen years this week, my mother is going to the hospital next week and my brother needs a royal invitation to visit. All I've gotten was excuses, when all I've wanted was attention. Yet the only person to genuinely enjoy my presence I don't get to see much and manage to push away in my absurdity few can actually understand. None of the people that have gotten to know me recently know that I've not been like this forever. I lost my faith when I was a kid. I lost my mind when I was an adult. I've never been happy since 2003, never content since 2015. Pushing myself out of bed to fight, but I keep losing. Losing until I break and can fight no more.
The government is after my money. My doctor is on vacation and my neighbours are harassment. My place of solitude has become a prison once again.
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