Wednesday, Apr. 07, 2004/12:09 pm

numb

I don't know what to say anymore.

I've been looking back over past scribbles, re-reading the same overused words. Frequent grammatical errors and spelling mistakes, lines that don't even make sence. All i do is moan, and repeat myself. I can't understand why i have so many readers. Maybe it's like the scene of a car crash, bloody, gruesome, tragic, and yet you are drawn like a moth to a flame.

I always tried to believe that i had my writing. Something to make use of, be good at it, perhaps even be proud. The harsh truth is that it is poor, confusing and nothing special. There are far better poets and novelists out there, and all i do is update an online diary.

There is a clear cut line between my two worlds, one of complete honesty, and the other of deception. Here, online, i lay my life down for all to see, i am as open as i could be, the only place where i can speak. The reality is that everyday is filled with fresh lies, and a total fictionous existance. I phoned one of the girls i kept in touch with from IP last night. She asked me how i was, i said great, and added that i'd passed my 85% weight target now. That is a complete lie, and it just slipped out without even having to think. I then swiftly changed the subject to asking about her. I am worried about everyone aside from myself. I just don't matter.

I can feel this anxiety slowly twisting around and trapping me. I went shopping yesterday, overwhelmed with panic that i might spot someone i know. I was supposed to be going out this morning to post some parcels but i can't bring myself to, i just don't want to move. Dad is coming later though, that's a different worry of it's own.

My number fixation is also worse. I can't get the counting out of my head. Especially when i'm eating. I even have to fit in another b/p before bed if i've only had 6, just to make it 7. As 6 is unlucky, and 7 lucky. Crazy? - just slightly.

I've been thinking about suicide again. Noticing the boxes of paracatemols and asprins we keep by the fridge, my razor in the bathroom. However, the ideas are shortlived, replaced by images of an inevitable aftermath. I don't think i could ever do it, see the distraught looks on peoples faces, tear tracks and pleading eyes. To be unsucsessful, ending up back in hospital, with bound up wrists, attatched to beeping machienes once more. Similar to standing up and shouting at the top of my voice, and attention is the last agenda on my mind.

I just want to slip away. Between folds of air into a hidden room.

When will i realise that i cannot just lose myself? This cannot be forgotten, not just like that, this pain is real. I can't disappear now matter how much i long to.

I'm numb. I can't show my anger anymore. I don't scream or lash out, i just run around in circles inside my head. My thoughts are so intense, regularly keeping me awake at night. I remember that old feeling of climbing rage, listening to loud music and punching my pillows, longing for a release. Plunging a blade down into my skin, wishing for the blood to eventually run clear. I don't need that anymore, i'm numb inside, completely numb. If i resort to cutting now, it's in a desperate attempt to feel alive, feel the slits through my flesh, as i sit blank and staring.

It's sad when has become an achievement to pluck your eyebrows. When it takes all your effort and energy to bother after putting it off for months. Dad will be here in about two hours. I've got to go and purge, and then drag myself in and out of the bath, wash my hair, find some decent clothes, try to brush out the flaws, or make them less noticiable. I'm sure he'll find something to comment on though, he can take his pick, there's alot to choose from.