Pleae Please Please Please Please....

You are on your way over and I am terrified. No decision will be made this evening, we are just going to pretend that everything is normal, just like before, because we are both lonely and, while I know that I am in pain, I think you are in a bit too. If you wind up deciding to be without me later on there is a good chance the memory of this night will kill me but I had to ask you to come. I had to hold you, see you, run my hands across your face, through your hair, down you back and I just want to pretend that things are the way they were, that you are still mine. I wanted it all to end tonight, all of this pain, all of this drama. I wanted to run straight to the door as it opened and jump into your arms and ask you to promise you would never ever do this to me again and you would kiss me over and over, my forehead, my cheeks, my lips, and you would tell me "I'm so sorry baby" and you would hold onto me and everything would be better. It would be like this past awful, horrible, terrible week hadn't happened. I would keep on falling in love with you and maybe someday you would love me just as much.

All of these woulds and ifs and maybes and hopes and dreams and wishes built up in my head and heart, clawing at my insides, they're such happy thoughts but they make me bleed. This morning I dreamed of you, we were happy, and I awoke and signed online and you were there and I screamed "I'm here! I'm here!" and then you were gone and I cursed the world and I cursed hope and I cried. Hell I'm crying now even though I am partially getting what I want, I am getting an evening with you. I am so delicate, so fragile, everyone tells me to be strong but with you... I would do whatever you said, whatever you asked and I don't even fucking know why. You aren't the man of my dreams. You aren't who I was looking for. You do things that make me angry and gross me out and annoy me, but I want you this badly anyhow.

Thirty minutes and you will be here. So long. So long to wait. Be here now. Be early once. Don't make me wait any longer, I am a mess inside, I am freaking out, I don't know what to do. Be cool, be aloof, don't be needy, that is the advice that I have been given. I don't know how to do any of those things, those aren't honest and I always promised to be honest. Go with the flow I guess? Follow your lead? But I have to touch you. I have to hold you. I don't care if that goes against the rules. But I am so scared, terrified, shy... how do I do it. Just rise from the couch and walk to your arms and hope they wrap gladly around me? Wait for permission? Wait for you to make the move, hope you make the move... I don't know what to do I don't know what to do I don't know what to do... I need a guardian angel whispering in my ear, telling me what to do so that everything goes smoothly and well and end happily. I can't do this alone. I guess this is why people go for religion. God is grown up's imaginary friend, there for them always, so they never feel alone. I can understand that. But I can't lean on any God, I don't trust any God after Jessie. So I have me. And I know that deep down I am strong, to get through Jessie I had to be strong, there is a soldier in there somewhere... but there is this fragile little girl too and she seems to be in charge lately. Maybe I will get lucky and the soldier will come out and take over and make the decisions and show him how tough I am, fearless, not some needy whiny woman but a fighter, a grown woman, steel for bones and I don't bleed because I cannot be wounded. Soldier.

Only 6 minutes have passes. Jesus Christ. Time time time time be on my side, move faster for me, bring him to me, stop this insane waiting. I am going through so many personalities I am wondering if I have a disorder. The moods are swinging and I just keep typing, writing, calming, I write and I wish that I could just write everything I think for the rest of my life because I am oh so awful at speaking and I get tongue tied and flustered and embarrassed and confused and I wind up sounding like an idiot. Later, in my head, I re-enact the entire interaction in my mind and I say everything I should have said and I sound so smart and everything goes so well and I look so good. See writing I can do that, I can get my point across, I can sound intelligent and I am well spoken and I can change the god damned world if I want to. That is what got him here. He was here and I was tongue tied and terrified and I let him walk all over me but then, later, I re-enacted it and I knew what I should have said and I wrote it. And I sent it. And now he is coming. And he is rethinking things. The one thing I am good at, the one thing on this earth that I know I can do and do well. The one thing. And I will use it whenever necessary and now I am lost and rambling and he is going to be here in 19 minutes, if he is on time that is, if he is late I will be even more of a wreck, Jesus.

Okay. Play it cool. Be aloof. But not cold. Just cool. Play it cool. How the fuck am I supposed to play it cool when my heart is in my throat and tears are hiding behind my eyes and my lungs can't get enough air. How how how how... It would all be a lie but I need to keep him. Does that mean playing aloof, even though that is lying? Or should I be me, full on, over powering, possibly terrifying, and chance scaring him so far far, too far far away...

Okay. I will be me but I will joke. I will show him my new camera and tell him that I paid off my computer and show him the silly bottle of wine that Caroline bought for me and maybe mention that i haven't eaten all day, just for kicks, and I will have him marvel at my clean room and tall him about how I might be moving into Caroline's old place, which holy shit might have a dishwasher and holy shit you are here. You're here.

What happens....

What happens when you don't eat for three days and overdose on Klonopin? This is one of those "if I die, my bad" posts. I just don't feel like eating, the light headedness that comes with the hypoglycemia distracts part of my brain. The Klonopin distracts another portion of my brain into thinking I am a zombie. Then I am only left with that chunk of brain that realizes she is alone. That realizes she just got dumped by what she thought was a fantastic guy. She realizes she won't be getting anymore hello kisses or kisses goodnight, no more holding hands or random touches or fingers running through my hair. No more. And now comes the stage where I hope, constantly hope, he changes his mind and comes back to me, even though I know he wont. No more feeling wanted, even loved. No more. So I take the drugs on an empty stomach and I pray for oblivion and should I fail to wake in the morning know that it was not fully intentional but it is not unwanted either. It isn't because of a boy it is because of life, I was not designed to handle life and that is why, should I fail to wake in the morning, part of you should breathe a sigh of relief for me, for it means that my pain is over.

Mother Fucker.

FUCK YOU. I was perfect. I did everything right. I took care of you the way no other woman has. I made you fucking happy. I tried so FUCKING hard. And now you need your SPACE? Fuck you when you say you aren't pushing me away, you're kicking me in the gut, tearing out my heart and slamming door after door in my face. I tried being nice. I tried babying you. I tried understanding. But. I repeat. FUCK YOU. I have reached my limit, if you give a good goddamn about me you will see me, you will see me tonight, you will apologize for the HELL, the fucking AGONY you have put me through and you will do whatever it takes to make this okay. I'm tired of being timid, I am tired of crying every single mother fucking night, I am tired of waiting for you to give a shit. So make up your fucking mind, you want to be with me or you don't. Pick.

You are going to tell me to fuck off and it is probably for the best because I deserve so much better than this.

Fuck You. You're Crazy.

I warned you. I told you. Over and over again. And then you were great and you kissed me and held me and made me fall for you and then I have one of my bipolar day. I mutter the word suicidal and it's all over. You said you need time to think but I have heard that. I know that phrase. You are going to leave me all alone. All alone again. I TOLD YOU. I WARNED YOU. I thought we would be together for so long. You said I would be with you in Grand Rapids next year and I believed you, I was so excited, it is all I ever wanted. And you are going to tear it away from me.

Will it always be like this?

Solitary confinement.

I am incapable of being alone. Maybe David is right and he is a rebound. Maybe after I got rid of Zack I needed someone else to fill my time, to fill the whole in my chest, and I clung to the first man that came along. I hope that isn't the case. I just know that I cannot be alone. I spend the entire time in bed, waiting for someone to call, to drag me away from myself. I am not alive when I am alone, suspended animation, frozen in time, locked in that cell, solitary confinement. So I freely hand out the key to my cell, hoping that this time, this person, will be the one to leave the door open, to stay with me, to want to spend all that needed time with me. But that person doesn't exist, I might as well toss the key but I just keep hoping I will find that person that will fill this huge whole in the center of my being, this gap in my life. I have David right now but I feel it slipping, or is that just me? Maybe it is all just me. Just me. Just. Me. Alone. Again.

This is new...

My heart is flailing about wildly within my chest, hollering "what the hell? Didn't we just do this?!" I feel it swell, I feel it beat like rain on pavement in the heaviest of storms. It freaks out, it slows, it quickens, it all depends on that one person, on what the two of you are making and it is terrifying. Everything is moving so fast but I don't want it to slow, I want to opposite, I want to run full speed ahead into it all. Welcome it. Because I think, this time, if I we to fall, this one would catch me, and hold onto me, he wouldn't use me, he wouldn't take me for granted, that is, if he ever feels the way I do. I can't tell him, it's too intense you know? Last thing I want to do is scare him. I'm not in love but I am close. No one has ever been around me the way that he is. Caring, attentive, wonderful. He makes me feel so good. I'm terrified that I am going to fuck it up. Scared beyond belief to be honest. We all know I'm not the most stable, a live wire. I just want to be with him. That is all I want right now. To be with him as much as possible so I can feel the way that he makes me feel as often as possible. That feeling is LOVED.

Away from here.

Put me away.

Someone needs to take me away and lock me up before I wipe myself off this planet for good. All of you fuckers have me trapped here. Please. Just let me go or take me somewhere where the world can't hurt me anymore.

Let me die.

Lets write a song!

I see the world in snapshots,
a movie on pause
Beneath a photographic sky,
waiting for the print to fade
and the ink to run dry.

my mind is so full,
I hate all that's mine,
so lost yet so sure
all at the same time.

I have no future,
I have no my past,
sometimes it's as though I don't exist.
Funny, how I disappeared so fast.

I hate star crossed lovers
and all their twisted truths,
they stare into each others eyes
make promises lacking proof,

they laugh all the time,
they smile all the time,

she say's their special
but for him it's a game,
she knows their different
but he believes we're all the same.

We're on different planes here, lover,
he told her that night.

I love you I love you I love you,
an endless chant she dies to believe,
she twists it around her black heart
until the skin breaks and she bleeds,

She hates how she wants him,
loves him,
but she loves it all the same,
making him smile,
making him laugh,
holding and loving him
no one else could love him this way.

Star crossed lovers, you can rot in hell,
I don't believe in you anymore.




meh

Let's get rhymy!

I'm kneeling, bleeding,
reaching in the dark.
For answers that don't want to be found
Answers for why you disappeared
for why you're not around.

What was I supposed to feel?
How was it supposed to end?
I seem to have lost my script.

I gave you everything I had,
And then I gave you more.
I thrust my love upon you
and you left me bleeding on the floor.

Still alone here
reaching in the dark.
What sort of person could leave me like this?
I thought you were a man.
I may be lost and in the dark,
but I'm doing what I can.

Now I know how I'm supposed to feel.
And I know it had to end.
I don't need your damned script.

I gave you everything I had,
And then I gave you more.
I thrust my love upon you
and you left me bleeding on the floor.

Good thing it made me realize
I don't need you anymore.

----------------------------------------------------------

Incapable.

I am defective.

I am weak.

I am self-loathing.

I am incapable.

Tell me that I can do things, go places, be something. Tell me I am not a failure. You believe in me and for a moment I believe in my too. And then this wave hits me and I am once again defective. weak. self-loathing. incapable.

Welbutrin.
Seroquel.
Paxil.
Prozac.
Abilify.
Lamictal.

What combination does it take? How many milligrams? To make me normal. Able to function. Able to beat this, my own mind, my own nature, my own craving to die.

I am nothing.

I wish...

that Jessie wasn't dead.

that I had been the one to hang myself and not her.

that Zack wanted to be with me the same way I want to be with him.

that I was the old me, strong, confident, cocky, independent, unafraid.

that I could go places and do things without worrying abut money and mental health.

that the world didn't scare me.

that people didn't terrify me.

that life didn't have to be so damned hard, day after day.

I wish...

I wish that I could just let go, leave, say my final good byes and be done with living this life. I wish I could just die in peace. Soon.

Don't leave me.

3 Ambien, 4 Klonopin. Why? I know it wont kill me, tried that one before but the stupid world, that sadistic masochistic entity we call GOD won't let me die. So I just take them in hopes of dulling the pain, in hopes of escaping this reality for as long as I can. Because Zack is leaving. Zack is leaving for 3 months for OCS, a place he can't take me. But then he will be based in Florida, where he could take me, where we could share a crappy apartment on base and he could run his drills and further his training and I could stay in that apartment writing and painting and cooking and I could be there when her got home, dinner waiting, hello kiss, crawl in bed with me at the end of the night, every night. I'd be there every morning, at the crack of dawn to kiss him good bye. I want that, I want to be there, I want to be his.

But he said no.

I shouldn't have asked, I knew the answer before he said it. Take me to Florida with you, let me live with you, let's be together after OCS.

No. I can't promise that, he says.

He wants me to wait, to be there through OCS to talk to him, to be his strength, and I want to be there for him too. But I thought, hoped, that after OCS when he was based in Florida he would want to take me too. No. He wants to continue the long distance purgatory he has me in. The limbo. The hell. The slow suicide. I can't do it.

God for so long, since that first kiss when we were juniors in high school, I have been his. Why can't I have the right, the certainty it takes, to call him mine as well? Why have I had to live these pat 6 or 7 years knowing every second of every day that he would leave me in the end? Why did I stay?

Because I love him, more than anything, more than my own life. I gave him everything I have. I helped him get into the Navy, I helped him in his pursuit to accomplish his dreams even knowing it would take him away from me in the end. Because I am good for him. I am the best for him. I would do anything for him and be happy with it.

I want to be his. I want him to take me with him. I want to be there waiting for him day after day.

I can't waste my life waiting for him to change my mind. I can't. So in 3 months. After OCS. We will see. Either he and I will be together, whether here or far away, or we will be apart. We will be a memory rotting within one another's hearts and minds. And then, as time goes by, we will be nothing. I will be nothing but I fear, even then, I will still be his. And it isn't fair. God it just isn't fair. Why does it have to be so hard? Why can't he love me like I love him? Why must it be like this? Why must it kill me from the inside out, over and over again when he mentions a future in which i do not reside?

I've been through enough pain, more than most people experience in a lifetime, and not that pain is about to nearly double. I AM ONLY 23 YEARS OLD. You sick sadistic masochistic God. You asshole. Fuck you for putting us through this. Jessie, my family, Zack, myself. Damn you. We are good people, we are good fucking people, stop pushing us, stop pushing me to this suicidal point when we both know I am incapable. I'm your sick little joke, Your experiment. Am I passing? You sick fuck.

So in short, Zack is going to leave me in the end. The love of my life, the man that I would die for without a second thought, the man that I would do any damned thing for, is going to leave me, probably in 4 months. A time limit. I'm on a schedule. How many I love yous can you fit into 4 months? I can tell you, not enough to change a single god damned things.

I'm taking another ambien. Please, I just need it all to go away for awhile.


EDIT:

Just took 3 or 4 more ambien, and I think 4 more klonopin. I'm losing count. Bet $100 I still wake up though. God has other, more heart wrenching, painful, depressing plans for me, ones far worse than death. Bastard.

How am I STILL NOT ASLEEP??

My heart palpitates. Again.

Heart still palpitating and no Abilify to blame this time. High cholesterol? So young? Am I going to be that fat chick? No.

Tired.

Sick of who my father has become. He is no longer a father, Who is in these pictures hanging beside his computer? His girl friend's children. Where are we? Me, Jessie, Amanada... What are me? Oh right, I am a house sitter, Amanda is a hotel and Jessie is dead. I no longer have a father, I am aqcuainted with a 53 year-old man who thinks he is 16 and speaks of nothing but his girlfriend. Cares for nothing but his girlfriend.

We are nothing to you anymore. We are your fuck up. Jessie died. Amanda moved. Mom left. You kicked me out. Time to start over? Time to forget us? When you are in Fort Wayne, will you still try to see me if I refuse to see her? I already know the answer. Same as the one I would get if I asked you to choose between me and Amanda and Janet. NO. She wins.

Thanks Dad. Once you find a few more ways to slap me in the face, besides the house sitting, the pictures, the cards, the failure to plan ahead, the constant name droppings, you just let me know.

There are worse titles than The Girl Who Accidentally Over Dosed, right?

Fuck you Father.

The house always wins.

I have a different journal for posts like this one but for some reason I feel the need to place these words, at this time, right here. I leave them with a disclaimer, they aren't happy, if you love me or are even just a little find of me they may worry you, but just deal with that, trust that I am still alive and move on. Do not comment that you are praying for me, if you are then go ahead and just do it, don't call the looney bin, all a straight jacket will do for me is dislocate my shoulders, and if you see me don't say anything, if you must say something go with "I read the post and I am here if you need me" and I can just say "I know" and we can avoid all of the awkward in between. Cool? Cool.

I was trying to figure out how to start this while on my way home from Battle Creek, that is when I decided to transcribe all of this after all. I thought that I would start from the beginning, from the morning Jess died, just free write it out and see what happens. I am still going to free write, I say that so you will forgive any and all grammatical and spelling errors, but this story doesn't start in any specific place, I feel the way I do right this second for so many reasons that it would be narrow minded to point the metaphorical finger at a mere one. So I guess, in short, be prepared to skip all the hell around because I can't stick to one straight line, I am not a straight line, I am as crooked as they come.

I was born different but nobody knew. Growing up I think I sort of did but I was just looked at as needy, moody or attention seeking. In truth I was broken but back then, even if someone had known why I was different from my friends, my parents, my sisters, why I thought and felt differently, why one tiny event would make me scream and kick and cry for no reason... even if anyone had known that I wasn't just acting out, that I was broken, they wouldn't have had any clue as to how to fix me. Professionals still don't, hell when handed Jessie, another broken child, they mishandled her case, didn't take her personality into consideration, prescribed her drugs that weren't yet approved for her age group and, in short, hurried her suicide along. Maybe it's for the best that no one looked at me, tried to fix me, until then? Then again if they had, if I had been the one who was pushed to the limit with no real knowledge of what my death would leave behind, perhaps I would not be here and she would, perhaps that is the way that it should have been. It should be me in that tiny urn, in the ground, not her. I was supposed to be the lesson to be learned, the warning, I am the big sister, that was my job.

I have been cutting myself on and off since I was 14, I suppose that little habit was one Jess and I shared. I was just more slick about it, I always was the best at acting, playing the part. I started with my finger tips, no one looks there and if they do you can say it is nothing more than a paper cut. They don't generally notice that more than one is sliced open. Plus I have found that the finger tips are extremely sensitive, making the pain very acute, which makes a smaller, shallower cut do the trick. So I started with those, but soon I found that I couldn't perform everyday tasks because my fingertips were always healing. That is when I started cutting my upper arm. Over and over, even before the last cut had healed, I would cut right over it until there was and inch-wide bunch of slashes, like a bundle of bloody sticks. Some girls I knew in middle school asked me how I could do that because it must hurt so much and I thought 'isn't that the point?' There are those who do it because they feel like it, then there are those who do it because there is something inside clawing to get out through whatever means necessary. Then I started on my ankle, it was even easier to hide than my arm and the skin there felt even more sensitive so less cuts were necessary. This went on for over a year, there would be an event, a stressor, a fight or test or trip, you name it, and I would gain control of the situation for those few seconds that I watched myself make myself bleed.

Then Ericka saw, my best friend. She was not happy. She was, is, also a lot smarter than you would think. She knew that there was only one way to stop me. I didn't care what happened to me, obviously, but I loved her, much more than I loved myself. So she surveyed the cuts on my upper arm and grabbed a pair of scissors and raked them across her arm. I watched her wince and yelp and complain that it hurt but she swore that she would cut herself every time that I did. I stopped. I knew that every time I cut myself I was essentially cutting her. Told you she was smart didn't I?

Over the years there have been relapses, times when I needed it, I can't explain it but in my mind it had to be done in order to go on. I relapsed again, this would be where the disclaimer comes into play. I don't have to tell you this, hell I have no idea why I am but I am so just... do with that what you will. The past two or so weeks have been harder than any I can remember. I can't blame it on one thing, I could say it was the fact that we changed my meds from Paxil to Prozac, maybe that was it, but I know better than to blame just one thing, perhaps it set off a series but wither way, I spiraled. Whereas before every day was just another day I had to live through, now every day was another one that I had to survive through. I had to fight the urge to kill myself daily, I saw myself slitting my wrists, I saw myself overdosing on pills, I saw myself drive into the guard rail or into a ditch... all with nothing short of yearning. But I couldn't do it, Jessie was sitting there holding me back, tying my hands behind my back, immobilizing me completely. I wanted so badly to die, to be done, more than I have wanted anything in so long, but I couldn't do it and I sort of hate her for that. So I cut, coincidentally, no that isn't the word... ironically enough I found that the tattoo of her name on my wrist was the best place to hide the cuts. So I made small controlled strokes with a razor blade, followed the sweep of the J and the slant of the Es, so no one would see. It helped, got did it help, I sat there in the shower, watching the blood wash down the drain and I breathed deep and sort of smiled and felt in control for just a second.

We changed my meds again in hopes that this would all go away and it sure isn't as bad as it was but it is still here. I think it is less the meds and more just me. I am no longer suicidal but I would still rather be dead than alive. Tonight I went out and had a great time at a bar with one of my best friends and then saw my ex with his arms around his new girlfriend and everything cracked and shattered and made me bleed. I decided then that I would either slice a piece of me open or follow another hobby and drive to the casino. I drove to the casino, I figured that most of the people I care for would rather I give up $50 than a chunk of flesh. I was too afraid to deal with people, nothing new there, so I played blackjack on a machine, I chain smoked half a pack of cigarettes and lost $80. Another form of self mutilation in and of itself I suppose.

On the way home I watched the tip of my cigarette burn red against the red of the car lights ahead of me on the highway and I thought that I still wanted to cut. I knew where I razor was waiting and I planned to pull it slowly across my shoulder, tearing the flesh. Then I decided that I would write first and see what happened after that. The razor remains on the nightstand beside me but there it will stay. I am still bleeding but the wound is here for you all to see. I am not hiding this gash, this pain, under a bracelet or a long sleeved shirt, I am showing you that I am gaping, sliced open and bleeding. Why? I don't know, maybe to show you how strong I am, maybe I am strong, I guess I would have to be to continue to fight this mental war for as long as I have and still remain alive. Stronger than Jessie. Or perhaps it isn't strength so much as guilt, obligation keeping me alive, because of what Jessie did. She did it and now I trapped here on this plane, stuck suffering until fate does me a favor and wipes me off the face of the earth.

Maybe I am writing it because I am hoping something beautiful will come through here, I have read work that I have done when I wasn't on meds and I was and still am dumbfounded and how poetic and profound it all sounds, written by a 17 year old no less. On meds I can't do that so much. But here I am, on meds but still so sad, so I try to recreate the magic. I slash my proverbial wrist open and bleed into cyberspace, hoping something magical comes of it.

I was thinking that I would start talking about the morning Jess died. I told you that. A teacher I had told me to trash my entire novel and start from scratch, maybe I was going to give his theory a shot, maybe I still will, but it is nearly 5 am and I have had too many drinks and too many cigarettes to keep my eyes open much longer. Age.

In order to sell this house, the one in which I grew up, in which my sister died, in which we tore down her room and made the upstairs into a loft of sorts, my father is putting it all back together. I walked upstairs the other day and my knees gave out. The walls were back, standing where they had until my father tore them down a week after Jessie's death. It was all the same, there was her room, there was her closet, and I saw her there. Hanging. The entire time I have been in this house since she died I have seen her hanging there in the center of the second floor, alone, lifeless, gone, right in front of me. Having the walls back up makes it even easier, I can see the brown shag carpet of the hallway, the turquoise of her walls and black of my ceiling. The stars I painted above both of our heads. It is all back, I feel as though, as I sit here at the foot of the stairs, up there none of this has happened. I am 15 or 16 and Jessie and I are co-existing, arguing, joking, living without any knowledge of what is to come, what is going to tear us apart. There is an entire universe up there, a separate time and place and I just want to walk up there and be part of it, be oblivious, see her not as a ghost, an obligation, a curse, a memory, but as my little sister, my annoying, quiet little sister and nothing more. But I know that if I walk up those stairs all I will find are white half constructed walls, partly painted over murals, a skeleton and not even ours. It is a whole new place up there but in my mind it will always be the place in which she and I both lived and died.

So I don't give in to the urge to curl up on the floor of her closet with a blanket and sleep in hopes that when I wake she will be standing over me asking me what the hell I am doing in her room. I don't give in to that crazy piece of my mind, there are only so many pieces of my that I can allow to snap before all of me breaks completely, irreparably.

Perhaps I will right more tomorrow. It feels as though merely closing my eyes for a moment or so right now will be enough to let me sleep and that is so rare, especially in this place, that I cannot pass it up. We all know that I will be back, the only question is when.

Heed the disclaimer, please don't make me regret writing this, showing you this piece of me. Had Jessie shown me this part of her... I don't know but it could have and in my mind, forever, WOULD HAVE changed everything. Sometimes wounds should be left in the open to be seen and understood. I write this not asking for help or pity or some sort of cure. I write this because just doing so helps me and who knows, maybe someone somewhere in cyberspace will read this and it will help. Maybe. Just know that barring natural causes I will remain alive tomorrow and the next day and the next no matter what my mind tells me to do. Thank Jessie for that as I simultaneously curse her for tying me here.

To anyone who is actually still reading this, I bid you good night, or good morning I suppose. It is just another day, reading this changes nothing so you need not to a thing. I do not need saving, I need to write, I need to work it out, I need to survive. Survive is all I can really hope to do.

Lost.

is there some kind of rule stating that life has to be this hard? I'm suicidal. Right this second I can tell you that I am suicidal. I would much much rather be dead than alive right now. I can hate Jessie for being both the reason I have to stay alive and part of the reason I so badly want to die.

I so badly want to die.

All the time I feel all alone on this long, rocky road. I trip over cracks and broken asphalt and I scrape my knees and my hands are bleeding, the wind is frigid and my coat is thin, my lips are blue and the tears clinging to my lashes have long frozen. But I keep walking, I am cold and bleeding and tired and crying and alone but I keep walking on these mechanical legs because I don't have any choice. I don't have her way out. I just keep walking, I just keep freezing until it becomes too much and my knees give out and I fall and I lay on the uneven ground for minutes, hours, days, cold and bleeding and broken, until I realize that I won't get anywhere laying here in a heap on the frozen ground, maybe I'm not headed anywhere better, maybe it will all just keep on sucking, but a maybe is a maybe. Meaning that at some point things could get easier, could get better, maybe. Which is more than I can say for the knowing that right now I want nothing more than to die.

Emotionless.

I am going to cut myself tonight.

I need to feel something.

I need to be in control of something.

It is all I have.