psych.

just when you gave up hope, swallowed your pride and owned up to every weak, senseless emotion you'd ever had you get an inch of rope. maybe one night was all i deserve. maybe i was drunk, or you were drunk, or it was an inevitability. either way, for one night i idiotically believed that this once, i did something that in the grand scheme of things was right.

wrong.

i don't know why i blindly love you, why i'd rather die slowly than pull the trigger. but only when it comes to you. please don't lie to yourself. if you are happy, genuinely happy, don't convince yourself the opposite. just because i know my feelings, my truth, and those feelings' consequences doesn't mean you must sell your soul as well. i've made my bed. i will lie in it, and i don't expect to wake up.

not if this is what i wake up to.

the same. the world moving uninterrupted. the secrets that are soon overshadowed by dawn's sobriety. secrets that become mine alone, because i am the one left soaking in them.

not a thing will come of this.

i knew. i knew.

i.

knew.

i'm

pretty sure i can't do anything right.

always reacting defensively.

only trying to say hold me closer.

pit.

the last few days i've spent watching things happen i have no control over. for someone like me, that's the equivalent of sheer torture. my stomach feels like an empty pit, there's a pit on my throat. there's a constant and unending feeling of resigned sadness, loneliness, fear, and a frantic compulsion to scream "stop!" and throw myself in front of my life....maybe then it would stop going and going and going and leaving me behind, racing to catch up. i keep trying to find my place in all of it somewhere, some niche that i'm needed or wanted or would be missed if i weren't around. i can't find it. at the end of the day when everyone retires to their beds with a lover or mulls over tomorrow's plan, i lie on a dirty futon alone praying for anything, any direction, any hope, any person, just something to give me a reason to feel okay again. to feel like my life means something more than just decaying slowly. i want to remember what it feels like to be loved, to feel safe, to feel like a relevant part of the world. these days i spend so much time feeling scared and overwhelmed and abandoned and genuinely petrified. i don't know what to do. i feel needy, and weak, and pathetic. and sad. i feel like i'm becoming invisible. slowly but surely fading away into the background. unfortunately, i think i've already been gone for so long no one would even notice i've disappeared.

ow.

i. am. so. tired. and bored of being tired. but mostly tired. as if someone stuck a syringe into my brain and sucked out all the juice. parts of my body hurt. random parts. my front left tooth for example, or my right lung. sharp pains, exacting pains, aches without warning, that just turn into dull throbs. my arms, my shoulder, the base of my neck. right knee behind the kneecap. it's as if my body is atrophying and decaying before i've died. what bothers me most is the exhaustion. i'm out of breath a block down the road, when i get excited my chest tightens. luckily, i don't get excited about things very often anymore. yesterday i managed to pull myself out of bed long enough to play "normal". i went to happy hour, halfway through my drink my head began pulsating to the point that i got dizzy. i left, which made no difference since i was drinking alone. got home. exhausted. sad. lonely. pissed. today my body still hurts, though the headache is now smack on top of my skull, my skulls been inflated and filled with fluid, and the base of my skull feels what i'd imagine arthritic would be.

i suppose what grates me the most, what puts the knot in my stomach and the rock in my throat, is that i'm writing this alone, with the lights off, and no one on earth is ever going to read it.

i think i'm turning into eleanor rigby.

wah.

i'm consistently toeing the line between seemingly normal "bad" days, and honest to god day-long bouts of depression. i hear doctors enjoy calling it bipolar. doctors also enjoy calling me bipolar. i'm sure it isn't a coincidence, but it certainly mitigates my ability to take my moods seriously. when i'm exhausted, had too many "happy" days and need a break, i tend to sob. everything makes me upset, frustrated, hyperemotional. i can anticipate my mood changes, but the actual manifestation of such overwhelming feelings is uncontrollable. i find it scary. it makes me scared of my happy days, as if i'm only postponing the inevitable for one more day. when the sadness hits me, it's a tidal wave. i know, it sounds trite. those are the days when i need people around me to hug me, to let me fuss about, to know i can feel safe emoting without being abandoned. unfortunately for me, i know damn well no one wants to be around a walking time bomb of tears and wall punching. so i internalize it all. it is more my fault, after all, than the unlucky person who happens upon my path.

i feel sad today.

the last months for me have been an unending up and down of epic screaming matches and amazing nights out. but every good day has had an equal or greater bad day, every glimmer of hopeful dreaming has held an eerily equitable dose of reality.

after awhile it feels like you're fighting an uphill battle against no one but yourself. i find myself to be a worthy opponent. the guilt, the anger, the soul shaking sadness easily kicks whatever weak foundations of self preservation i've developed over a lifetime's ass. it becomes a vicious cycle of happiness, then sadness, the anger at myself for being one of those broken people who can't focus, or appreciate the beauty and joy of being alive. it's as if i have survivor's guilt for just existing.

heart.

eh.

i've been thinking a lot about this blog since my first post. i'm sure any/everyone with a blog does, initially at least, debate with themselves about what to post when, how to present it, and whether or not it's alright to not have it be a focused account of a specific subject matter. i totally envy food bloggers, or fashion bloggers, or political bloggers. when they write, there's a purpose. at least one that's pin-pointed.

eh.

my mind doesn't work that way.

if i started a restaurant blog about celiac eating (i am a celiac), i'd inevitably have to start another one about fashion, or politics, or whatever else my mosquito sized attention span dictates that day.

so for now you'll all just have to bear with me.

so.

as anyone who knows me may point out, i am most certainly not a lady of few words. if anything, i tend to ramble, to speak in circles. honestly, i'd go so far as to describe it as straight up stream of conscious. in order to get from point 'a' to point 'b' i may (read: do all the time) have to veer over to 'f', 'q' and 'z' before finally getting around to finishing my thought. i tend to gravitate toward writing because it forces me to at least attempt to organize my thinking. if you were to ask me a question, any question, it may take me five minutes to answer verbally what i could condense into a single sentence.

trust me, i find this just as frustrating as the poor asshole who asked me how the movie i just saw does.

honestly, it's mortifying to suddenly notice you've been talking someones ear off only to realize you can't even remember what it was they asked you in the first place. it can be a little awkward. "acute (chronic? perpetual?) word vomit" really seems to describe it in its fullest entirety.

so.

you've been warned.