I seriously don’t even know why I bother to type things anymore. I guess lately I’m often too tied and apathetic to even reach for a spare scrap of paper. And I guess partly, if unfortunately I am still around in the future, I want to be able to look back and know what I was kvetching about at that time. Like a digital time capsule I guess.
I wish I had interesting things to say. I’m just a sad sarcastic person who has a brain that catastrophizes everything and can’t even think of a mildly entertaining way to put it.
I don’t even have the type of mental problems that are fun to watch on t.v. It’s New years Eve, it’s raining, and I don’t even see the point of getting up to find the remote so I’m alone with my thoughts. People are laughing and eating downstairs and I briefly emerge from my apathy to hate the fact that other people get to laugh.
I spend my days sleeping as much as I can to escape the pain that doesn’t even have enough mercy to get to the level of mind numbing.
My best friend is leaving in two days so I won’t even have her to go on mindless escapades with.
I guess I wish people would know in no uncertain times, even if I was high and “happy”, if someone offered to just euthanize me with a huge dose of anything, I’d be gone in a heartbeat. I guess because no one can see my pain physically. It’s not one of those gruesome accidents you see or hear about where you go “Ouch, poor thing.”
Mine is too long and boring to explain to people who don’t care anyway, and they can’t see what doctors fail to fix. Until I’m sobbing inconsolably on the bathroom floor and then they just wonder what the hell is wrong with me.
I miss him every day and I’m sure I’ll miss him every day for a really long time. Maybe forever. I don’t romanticize my pain because there’s nothing romantic about constantly wanting to do yourself in. But people will never be able to tell me that I haven’t gone through terrific amounts of pain because I wouldn’t have the restraint to not go off on them.
2017… I don’t know. Maybe I’ll finally get my liscence or figure out how to go to school while either stoned or wanting to be swallowed up by the ground. Maybe I’ll get a service dog and it’ll be good, or I’ll have the stones to move back to Missouri. Or the stones to give up. Or maybe I’ll find a doctor somewhere, (I’d go to the middle of the desert at this point) that will be able to do something that stops this fucking pain. But if none of those things happen or none of those things help, then honestly, I don’t want there to be a 2018.