There is something seriously wrong with me.
Of course, we've been through this about a million times before.
It's just, I'm not getting better.
Blame it on the fact that I haven't taken my zoloft for a little less than a week. Maybe it's been more.
Blame it on whatever you want to, actually. I don't much care.
All I know is I am starting to get desperate. Desperate to get out of... here. My life and my self. I've got two serious choices now and I am ready to make either of them. I'm standing on the edge, and I can only see one way out, which is neither sane nor normal, but it's the only chance I've got at hope.
The only hope I've got.
I've decided I need to get out of here, and in order to do so the only "reasonable" (okay, only, period) choices I've got are to either kill myself with whatever method I muster, or to get the fuck outta here alive, move far far away for as long as it takes me to get my sanity back.
And I am literally desperate enough to go anywhere I can. I will make money any way I can. I swear, I don't care if I have to be a fucking prostitute. The importance of getting out of my current life is huge.
How easy is it to kill yourself from ibuprophen? Probably not easy at all.
I need to get out of here. You probably don't understand. I don't care whether you do or don't. The only thing I can do is get the hell out of here, before it's too late, before I'm at the point that I have swallowed my entire bottle of ibuprophen and bacardi razz. I don't want to get to that point, but I can tell you right now I've got about an hour of being awake before I do do it, so I better go to sleep, huh.
Just as long as I pull myself out of bed for class tomorrow.
Holy shit. If I were able to think reasonably right now I'd be scared for myself.
But I can't so I'm not...
Holy fuck.
I better get to sleep fast. I'm running at that brick wall damn fast.
~Anne