The more people complain to me the more I realize how much my life has sucked.
In fact, it's not just people complaining to me. It's people complaining period. I mean, try living your entire life with someone who hates your guts and just wants you to fucking die. Try living with someone who does everything possible to make you feel as low as you possibly can.
Can and does.
I'm taking shots right now. The sting of alcohol down my throat is the only thing that reminds me I'm alive. It's the only feeling I can put down into words, describe, that will undoubtedly be understood. There will be no mistaking it. You can't blame the feeling of alcohol on "adolescence." Don't have to try digging deep within your soul to describe why the alcohol feels the way it does.
It stings, and that's that.
I wonder if I'll be stupid enough to get into a vehicle today. There's no reason why I would, or should, but there's just as many reasons why I shouldn't. NONE!
I sometimes read my old old diary entries, like from way back when when I was say, 11 or 12, and it's filled with desperation. Huge writing and song lyrics, describing how terrible I feel inside. I don't remember any of this, but I have the words to prove it happened. Then I'll read things from when I'm older, and the only things that have changed are the name of my current friends and the boys in my life. I'm seeing a pattern here. If I were writing this down right now it would be with those huge letters, too, because I think that I feel the same way now as I did way back when. And I don't even remember how I felt back then.
I wish I had excuses for the way I feel and act. I wish I had something more reasonable than "I'm depressed." Does depression make you a horrible monster that is literally impossible to get close to? Does depression make you a hateful, disgusting thing that is not only despised by everyone around you but by yourself, also?
Does alcohol solve all ills? And what about the ills that alcohol cannot solve?
We were listening to "Hurt" in class today, the one written by Trent Reznor, and the very first thing I did was take the watch off of my wrist and look at the old scars I have. They're hard to see, but if I pull the skin back, you can just make them out. Of course, you have to follow the veins. They follow the veins. Hurt is the song I used to cut myself to. Hurt goes back longer than I can even remember knowing that I was depressed, that I had issues. My sister used to listen to Hurt when I was young and confused and when she was suicidal. It seems kind of proper to think that I too listened to that song when I was cutting myself. Ever since I listened to that song in class today have my wrists ever ached!!! I mean, they are practically SCREAMING to be sliced again. Of course, that doesn't mean much, my bottle of Ibuprophen is SCREAMING to be taken, too, but as far as I know that can't even kill you. Irrational things screaming at me right now.
If I had a razor, though, I might do something about it... Or a scalpel like I used to use in the good old days. Do you know the emotional release you get from cutting yourself? It's like sex, but lasts longer and so much more worth it. It's something you'll keep with you until the day you die.
At first I thought I wanted help, but the more alcohol I drink the less I want help. I mean, who is there to give it to me? I've alienated all of my friends, and my parents have MUCH bigger fish to fry than a silly depressed girl!!! Besides, I don't want that damn help.
Fuck help, it's just an excuse. Just a thing people say to make others think they're concerned for them. Who needs help? People with smaller problems than me. People who can actually RECEIVE help, and APPRECIATE it. Who knows if I would even appreciate it? I probably wouldn't. And even if I got it, how long would it work? Last time I got help, well, it worked for... 4 months. Four months. Unless you count the zoloft, and that worked for about three weeks. I thought that stuff was supposed to stay in your system for a month, wasn't it? So how come it took less than a week to make me crawl on my knees??
Knees, they're an utter waste of space. You could store dopamine in those damn things, then they'd be much more appreciated.
Maybe my brain doesn't produce enough dopamine and serotonin. Isn't zoloft sposed to help that though? Well it isn't!! I want something to fix me big time. Something to stitch up the pieces in my brain. But it just doesn't work if there aren't all the pieces of the puzzle. Where's my missing pieces? Who took them from me?
I bet I can name THAT one!!!!!!!
I just want them back, is all. Who was it that did this to me? Should I blame my parents for giving birth to me? But how could they have known that their genes would produce such a miserable, fucked up thing? Make that two. How could they have known they would produce TWO miserable fucked up things.
I would like to take the time now to think back on a time when I was happy.
That of course would be a terrible waste of time, because pre-zoloft there isn't a time in my life where I remember being happy, because I wasn't!!!
Wow! An utterly sad childhood. It sounds so much better on paper, you don't have to know the person saying it, and when you DO know the person saying it, isn't it so much easier to shrug it off and think "we've all had it bad."
JESUS WHY CAN'T MY FRIENDS JUST ACCEPT THE FACT THAT I AM FUCKED UP AND LISTEN TO ME WITHOUT BLAMING ALL MY PROBLEMS ON SOMETHING ELSE?? Why can't they just let me get rid of the main cause?