Fear and Self Loathing

No job, no prospects. Nothing. I'm feeling damned useless and a failure. Self loathing is creeping in and starting to rear its ugly head hissing to me that I am what I fear becoming. Sleep is evasive, filling my head with nightmares. The only way to keep them at bay is to either use a sleep aide or harm myself. I wish to do neither, but I feel I may have no choice. I know what you're thinking, "You always have a choice." Well, bite me! I feel powerless here! I'm drowning and falling into an abyss, ripping my nails out as I claw my way back from the brink of disaster.

For a little while, I was feeling good, really good! Now I feel like crap and wish I hadn't had the time to feel good in the first place. At least then I had no idea what I was missing. I feel like I'll never get that back, though I know the thought is damned ridiculous.

There has to be an end to this crap.

I've started to punish myself with food. For instance, I'll only allow myself to eat once I finish certain tasks. Or I won't let myself eat anything because I'm not working. "Don't eat what you don't earn." I'm surviving mostly on coffee. I feel like injuring now, cutting and not giving a care. Burning and saying 'to hell with it'.


I'm supposed to go out with Nightingale tomorrow evening. Something tells me that she would notice, she tends to be very observant and sees far too much. Sometimes I feel she can look into my eyes and see everything.

Right now, I need a cut or a burn the way a junkie needs a damned hit.

Someone Noticed the Broken Angel

Last night, I was working on a project at my congregation with Nightingale. We were brain storming and everything was perfectly normal until she touched my left wrist and asked, "What happened here?" She had noticed the scars and a fresh burn that was only a couple days old. Shutting the door, I told her that I couldn't lie to her, though I had a fleeting moment in which I could have. I swore her to secrecy, begged her not to tell a soul. She promised by everything she holds sacred and holy not to tell anyone, ever.

She asked me why, I told her there were many reasons. Anger, self punishment, stress. She tried to be understanding, telling me that everyone has something that "makes them weird", meaning that everyone has a past they aren't proud of. She reminded me that I'm not alone, many people hurt themselves. I know that.

Nightingale asked how long I'd been hurting myself. Thirteen years, was the answer, but I just realized its been sixteen years. Over half my life, hurting myself. She was surprised I'd kept the secret that long, that I'd hidden it for so long. Its not hard once you master being invisible. She even told me that she wants to know more and will do some research on the subject. There were some recent articles that I'd read and pointed her towards.

How did I feel? Scared, terrified, like a caged animal. I came inches from a panic attack. I couldn't think straight, just stared at the floor even after she insisted that I look at her. I couldn't. Its said that the eyes are the windows to the soul, I'm not sure how much of me I want her to see or how much I'd burden her with. As it is she has to carry my secret and I don't think its fair to her. Such a heavy burden, I know. I apologized for telling her because I feel bad. She told me not to worry, that she was happy I trusted her enough. She knows I have trust issues.

"You're the first one to notice, Nightingale, no one else has," I told her. She looked a little sad fora moment and hugged me. I cried so hard, I thought I'd break. I promised not to avoid her, she's worried that I'll pull away from her now that she knows. Its tempting, but I won't. Its also tempting to look for reasons not to trust her, but I won't.

I'm scared, but relieved. She saw the broken angel on bended knees.

Writing Talent

I hate to hear ignorant people tell me that writing is not a talent. If writing is not a "real talent", than I suppose that the fools who spout such drivel don't listen to music, watch television or films. They obviously don't read.

I can take you through the galaxies to skip in star dust and deposit you on the distant moon of a far off world where anything is possible. I can show you the world beneath your own feet in a way that you have never imagined. The beauty of a sunset, of the city at night, of a married couple who have spent the last sixty years together.

Likewise, I can take your worst nightmare, shove it into your eyes, cause your heart to burst our of your chest, leaving you fetal in a corner begging for release. All I require it a pen and paper.

So writing isn't a talent? Neither is breathing, but you're doing it!

This Is A Strange Twist

I've felt like hell for a longtime. Not sleeping well, not eating correctly, not exercising, hearing or seeing things that aren't there. In short, I've been one messed up chick and I hated every damn minute of it. The other day, though, something dawned on me.

My mom said that she hadn't slept well. I said, "Oh? That's lousy. I actually slept ok." Then BANG it hit me, I've been sleeping fine for the past couple of weeks, no nightmares! Actually, I've had a couple of dreams that were geeky awesome (including one in which myself and Tony Stark had a water fight). Its nice to sleep without the nightmares haunting me.

Honestly, it feels kind of strange to feel GOOD. I've felt so bad for so long that to feel okay is different and weird to me. No medications. No therapy, not really any way. Dr B was nice and all, but I felt we weren't making progress, though that could have been because I was unable to go frequently. In a way it scares me because I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop, so to speak, but I think I'm just going to try and enjoy this.


I haven't injured in about three weeks and that's something. For a while there I couldn't go more then a week without injury. I'm not going to say that I'm cured, no more so than an alcoholic that doesn't drink anymore. He's still an alcoholic, he just doesn't drink. I'll always be an injurer, just choose not to injure.

One of Those Damned Days

I was trying to leave my neighbourhood this morning to run to town. Guess what? I drove over a damned big ass rock that managed to pierce a hole in my fuel tank. A friend of mine asked if I ran over kryptonite. I love that fact that she is geeky enough to ask me that. One of the few smiles today.

Since I have no money to fix it, I had to borrow from Dad. He's had a bad day at work so I didn't help at all. I waited in a bookstore that had wi-fi. All day, five hours! I'm pissed off, grumpy, urgy...

I want alcohol and sleeping pills. I don't want to think any more and I don't care how I achieve it. I want to self harm because I'm angry. Why the hell do these things keep happening to me?

Does it really matter?

I have no insurance and therefore cannot afford therapy. Of course once I do have private insurance, I also cannot afford therapy. Email to my therapist what I've found for health care and that its still not affordable and she replies, "Its a flawed system". No shit, Sherlock. Of course she isn't on the receiving end of the shit storm! She has health care, and the money to afford whatever the hell she needs. At $170 a session before insurance and "sliding scale" no wonder. Of course whatever she doesn't get directly in cash that day, the insurance reimburses to the point that she only has her office open to the psychos like me for three days in the work week.

I shouldn't be angry with Dr B, its not her fault. She's trying to help in her own way. She is a prisoner to the system just as much as I am. She can only do so much whilst my hands are tied completely.

I'm angry, pissed off, fucking furious and there is not a bloody thing I can do about any of it. Sure, I can injure, like I did last night. Doesn't help, none of it helps. I could change my injury spot again, new pain... No, doesn't help forever. Numb in the skin and pain in the brain. What a way to go. I close my eyes to try and calm myself, to not see that my life is nothing but a waste most of the time. My parents are disappointed in me because I can't move out and leave them alone. I have few friends and none of which I would ever tell my darkest secret. I have virtually no support.

I. Am. Alone.

I feel it every day I breathe, every night I try to dream. Part of me is so close to saying "fuck it" and giving up. But what of the other part? Too subbourne to die, to give in, to leave. I'm screaming in my head, I'm begging to be heard, but on one seems to hear me. Maybe I'm not loud enough, maybe none of them care, maybe maybe maybe... Does any of it really matter? Do I?

Screwed Up Little Brain

I have a job that is going well. I don't hate my manager, I have great hours that allow me to have a regular schedule for both sleeping and eating. I can read on my down time (there's a lot of that), I can write, play a game... whatever. There is actual income again!

My sleep is regular and there haven't been as many nightmares. There are fewer "forced days". Yet, why do I still want to cut? Nothing is pissing me off, nothing seems to be out of sorts, with the rather noticeable exception of my mother, but there's no getting rid of that. Why do I feel the need to hurt myself when things are going well, or relatively well?

Feeling like I'm broken, damaged, useless.