The lost 225
Tuesday, Jan. 27, 2015 10:21 AM
"I keep going to the river to pray
'cause I need something that can wash out the pain.
And at most, I'm sleeping all these demons away;
but your ghost, the ghost of you, it keeps me awake."
- Ella Henderson
I haven't written lately. I haven't had much to write about. I go up and down through these random mood swings where I wonder if writing is even worth it at all. Therapy, they say. Do it to for yourself!
All those years worth of diaries written down in pen, and then even more diary entries stroked out on a keyboard... How can I settle the uneasiness in my mind and clump them together into one giant book? Does it even matter if they're bound together or not? Why do I feel so out of sorts knowing half are written in pen and thrown about in big box storage bins while other years are sitting pretty online?
I think the idea that the words may disappear someday is driving me into some sort of self-induced anxiety. Would I really feel better if I printed off every entry ever written online and threw them into the storage bins? Would I feel better if I took up ink to paper instead? Lord knows I can't really do that completely. I have no freedom or personal privacy when it comes to that anymore. Kent reads my offline diaries, and if he knew what I really felt deep inside who knows what bomb may go off?
Yesterday was my first day back at work in almost a week. I spent all of last week and the entire weekend completely sick. My entire body ached as if I was being held down by a giant weight. My ears hurt the worst. I just wanted to cover them up with my hands and cry. I couldn't stop coughing or sneezing. I was doped up on Dayquil or Nyquil. On top of that, I took Benadryl. I tried very hard to sleep through the whole thing but by Sunday with no visible improvement my mom brought me over prescription prescribed cough syrup. It's been the saving grace to this... this... crazy cold?
I am so tired. Mentally I'm drained. Physically I'm dead.
Life isn't fair.
I never asked to be a bread winner. I never asked to be the sole provider to a sick man and his dumb ass son. Yes, I said dumb ass son. Will my hatred of that boy ever diminish and go away? I don't know. The older he gets the more he pisses me off. I wish he'd get into his car and drive off into the sunset. Just hearing him talk gets on my nerves. The tone of his voice is annoying. Would I hate him so much if he wasn't such a dick? Probably not. As my brother said the other day, "the kid's a sociopath."
Speaking of my brother, we've been writing each other a lot more. Texting, rather. We both suffer from depression and social anxiety. His has gotten worse over the years whereas mine has gotten only slightly better. He won't answer the door or phone, preferring to hide away from the world. If I didn't have to work, I think I'd be in the same boat. This is how I know I'm better than he's doing. His is crippling, and mine isn't so bad that I can't get up and walk out the door and head into work everyday.
But I do understand where he's coming from. I grew up with that anxiety and fear my entire life. I'm still clingy to my parents because of my anxiety! I don't know what I'll do when they pass on. I'll probably become a hermit like Scotty and rely on one good friend to do every bit of socializing for me. If only I were so lucky as to have such a friend. It takes a friend to be a friend and I'm not the most social "hey you, come be my friend" type of person. In fact, I think most people avoid me. I think, anymore, there's something seriously wrong with me.
I'm not kidding. I think there is something seriously wrong with me. Maybe it's a character flaw. It's most likely a part of my personality that I'm blind too. Am I too much of a bitch? Overly dramatic? Uncaring? Standoffish? Do I smell funny? Is it the fact that I don't wear make-up or try to look "pretty" and put together? Does my bitterness come out in ways I don't see? Should I go back to pill popping my anti-depressants and anti-anxiety pills? Am I overly sensitive still to the little things?
Now that I know I'm intelligent and have more confidence in my mentality, is that a detriment to the other parts of me that used to be more caring and loving and compassionate? You know, the side of me that priests and nuns used to admire? Sometimes I think that part of me is dead. After all, one can only cry over dead road kill so many times in their lives before they become immune to the carcasses lying smashed and bloody on the pavement.
That's a great word to describe a big chunk of me anymore. Immune. I feel very... IMMUNE ... to... to it all. And since I observe all the time and am constantly reflecting on things from "why in the hell did they paint the bathroom walls black!?" to "you greedy son of a bitch! Are you living beyond your means or something?" I guess my immunity comes out as lifeless. Devoid of attachment.
That's how I'm going to describe myself now. Immune. Lifeless. Devoid of attachment. Here's to you, former "The Queen of Empathy." You're dead now - and it didn't even take a single drop of alcohol to get rid of you this time.