Everything Stings

It’s Friday night in Iowa City.

I have some beer.

I have my medication. 

I have my blades.

I wonder how this night’s going to turn out.

Not how many would normally expect.

I’m not a big beer fan.

I’ve got 4 beers left. 

I should have 9, but I have 4.

Not a big deal, but still.

I just want to have a good time tonight.

I should have known better.

I can feel the spikes from others.

I can feel myself wanting to crawl back into my hole.

Maybe tonight should just be a me night. This weekend be a me weekend.

God damnit am I selfish.

It’s never a me day. It’s never a me weekend.

I should have practiced more this week.

I should know better.

I shouldn’t have drank anything now.

I shouldn’t have.

Oh, why did I drink anything?

I really shouldn’t have.

I’m at that point where I’m not really tipsy or drunk. I don’t even know where I am. I’m just sad.

Either I stop here or I drink more and more people come out.

I left a party earlier than I expected last night.

I was getting uncomfortable. 

There weren’t a whole lot of people there. It was just… clique-y.

People were talking to others. Enjoying one another’s company and such. I felt so small.

I felt tired. I felt drained. So I left. I left once I finished my beer. 

I’m being overly positive on the phone now.

Why?

Because I don’t fucking know anymore.

I don’t want them thinking I’m all sad.

They don’t need to know about all that.

No one wants to know about that. It makes them feel uncomfortable. It makes them think twice about everything they’ve done or said to me. 

No one wants to see the cuts on my shoulders.

This brings me to something else.

So… I haven’t been perfectly honest with anyone lately. Except for this… I guess. This is the closest thing I have to a therapist (sad as that is.)

My dad…. we talk every morning and I still can’t tell him. I can’t tell him how much I hate myself. I can’t tell him how many blades I’ve picked up and cut into my skin.  I can’t tell him that he’s the only reason why I am still alive right now.

Here’s my list of people and what they don’t know:

Doctor: how much I hate talking with her because she doesn’t ask the right questions or misinterprets my answer. Doesn’t listen to what I have to say. She jumps to conclusions. She has her perspective on things and… I can’t disagree with her reasons, but I’m also a poor college student with limited options. That I cut myself. That I drink. That I haven’t been taking Zoloft now for at least a month if not longer. That I applied for waitressing jobs after she specifically told me not to. There’s probably more.

Dad: the cutting. The self abuse. The loathing. The thoughts. The thoughts that scream so loudly. The thoughts. How depressed I really am.

Friends: the truth about anything. I lie.

I lie about everything.

One phone call with my dad.

He asks me whether I want to go into the bathroom and slit my wrists.

My thoughts? No, I want to perform my ritual and cut my shoulders.

My answer? No.

He asks me whether I want to stab myself in the heart?

My thoughts? No, I want to take pills or get a belt or a gun or jump infront of a semi on the highway.

My answer? No.

He asks me whether I still feel joy in everyday life?

My thoughts? Hardly ever anymore. There are moments, but moments die.

My answer? Sure.

I am a horrible daughter.

Everyday I’m finding more flaws with my body.

Everyday I stare at that blade and wonder if I should pick it up or not.

Everyday I go through the motions of my life.

Do I even have real hope anymore? I don’t even know what that’d be like.

Everything stings.

All the people at my house left me tonight. Including my roommate.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know if I can talk to my roommates that just got home about it.

I don’t know if I should just go home home tomorrow and come clean.

I need serious help.

I don’t know what I am anymore.

I’ve once again broke. I’m tired of breaking over and over again. I’m scared next time I break I won’t be able to pick the pieces up again.

I don’t know anymore.

Everything stings.

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