So I haven’t posted much this past week or two. Or done any other kinds of writing. And man, can I tell. My head is such a whirlpool of thoughts that ought to be out of my system already, it is making me physically ill. (It also may have to do with the fact I have yet again forgotten my meds for about a week. I’m sorry, darling, but you simply cannot trust me with that. I can have a million alarms and my body and mind refuse on it…)
While writing this I’m trying to make myself eat some multigrain porridge. Thanks to my lovely father not paying for my tattoo as promised I am kinda sorta broke here and sure, I could go ask for more money from my mother but I know that it’s getting tight with her too so I won’t. I’ll just live on porridge and chamomile tea (and whatever else I find in here that is vegan) until my Grandpa comes back home. Home. Silly word. Has no echo to me anymore. Just makes me disgusted. Ugh, I don’t want to eat this…
I haven’t cut since a few days before my birthday, which adds up to almost a month. I have wanted to, been dying to, many times now but have for now avoided it. I don’t really trust myself with that anymore. If it hadn’t been for my sister suddenly walking in the door yesterday I’d have been disintegrating one of the shaving devices she left behind and getting me some blades. Five of them.
I am trying my best to keep my head together because I am getting out of here in 19 days, after which my days will most probably be filled with happiness and kisses and Disney movies. Just 19 days and I’ll be on the plane already. I just need to keep myself from turning against me…
These days, I am one simply odd, traumatized creature. Doorbells make me cry. Thinking of my father makes me want to just slit my wrists already. Any little sound at night has me panicking and my heartbeat speeding up. I’m cold all the time. My stomach seems to hate the feeling of food inside of it. I have more and more moments of complete and utter self-hatred. I talk and cry myself to sleep at night as though talking to myself would soothe me out of the things I want to do to myself. I am never enough. I feel uninvited, even in my own body. I only have a fraction of my clothes and things and everything else is still at my father’s soon-to-be-sold apartment. It makes me want to throw up.
I haven’t even seen a glimpse of my father since at Monday night and it feels as though he is partly dead. That he only exists in the very few text messages we exchange. When I get my most distrubing and weird moments I get myself thinking that maybe he is dead. Maybe this is someone else because this is not the father I know and love. Not even near him. This is not even a clone.
My pulse speeds up a little each time I see something sharp and shiny, or if I hold a knife or fork or needle. It scares the hell out of me. It doesn’t help I broke the knob to the ancient dishwasher Grandpa has and now have to wash everything by hand. Knives included. Before I’d only have to put them in the washer. Not look at them and feel them and wash them.
So I guess I’m a bit like a bird.