The Last Rose

I write this poem some months ago and actually posted it, but then quickly took it down when I realized I could do better for it. So I changed some things around, and I will say it relates to my current place in life in a way. When I say ‘last rose’ I mean the last good thing. The thing I woke up to live for, being gone or becoming unimportant. This is about how that can happen, and when I don’t know what to do to move on, I just want to give up.

This morning’s golden halo
Torched and withered my last rose
Insanity is getting bold
Such misery…I cannot cope

Tears are slipping down my throat
Disturbed shards of a broken soul
Blades and sorrow hold me close
Dreaming far, of dark and cold

Skinless, grotesque, predisposed
Self-destruction’s all I know
Embrace my inner Scorpio
I have a future to disown

I can’t fix the status quo
Life takes too long to let me go
My lies receive a second coat
Pretend to live knowing I won’t

Night

     My mother got very upset today after failing a test for the second time required by her job. She missed the goal by one stupid point. She got an 89% instead of the mandatory 90%, and the people grading the tests weren”t decent enough to bump her grade up. But they don’t know that she’s got severe test anxiety. She came home early crying about the situation. As I was trying to talk her through it, she made the decision to go to the emergency room and talk to a counselor there. 

I am slightly envious that she so willingly decided to go to the hospital like that for emotional distress. I’ve only been close once I can remember about asking to go to the hospital, more than a year ago, when I didn’t want to go home and was suicidal. I didn’t end up going that time because I just couldn’t get the words to leave my lips that I needed to. A few bad things resulted from that, but i still don’t know if I’d willingly make it known that I needed to go to the hospital for a crisis like that. At times, it does scare me. The way I can so easily keep quiet and be secretive, even if every part of me knows it’s wrong and is fighting against it.

My mother’s alright now. From what she told me, she felt much better after she was able to talk to someone about what was going on at her job. Even though there are times I hate thinking about my therapy sessions, I will admit I like having someone to talk to like that. Face to face without worrying so much about judgement. But of course, I can’t tell my therapist everything. If I did, I am sure he’d suggest putting me away somewhere to be watched for a time probably. I don’t know what he’d suggest, but I know I wouldn’t be alright with it.

I am too good at lying…Beside that, I don’t think I know exactly what the full truth is anymore. If someone asked me how I feel, I wouldn’t have an answer. What does it mean when I don’t have an answer to that?……Anyway, here are a few lines I wrote a few weeks back.

 

Eyes of a soft shimmer, burst with glimmered tears

Tiny shards of sable songs

They fall and fall forever

Voices of desperation scratch gray until it bleeds

Beautiful insanity, lit spectacles of ruin

Drunken delusions slurred a world that made more sense

A timely dose of nightshade

So asleep, I’m almost dead.

 

 

More of the same…

      For the last week, I have probably cried every single day. This is all just not good. Nothing is right anymore, and it hasn’t been right for so long. And I am tired of repeating myself, feeling the same stale emotions, feeling hopeless about the future. I can not think about the future without considering not being around for it.

Classes start tomorrow for me. English and Human Relations. Both required for my degree. I am not happy. When I say that, I now it’s nothing to care about, because day after day millions of other people out there aren’t happy, yet they endure and continue their lives. But the difference I guess between me and them is I don’t have a true reason to continue. I don’t want a husband and kids. I don’t want to pretend I am worth anything in this life. It is useless, and it is a lie.

My family….forgets about me. They are the last. I don’t need it anymore. My thoughts are fixated on self-destructive things. The mess I am is right beneath my mother and brother’s eyes and they have done nothing to let me know they see me. Good. I’ve known for a long time that I could get away with a lot around them. I can do what I want. Many times there have been tears on my cheek, and blood on my sleeve, and they were perfectly blind. Here I am, thinking about killing myself, knowing well that I could get away with it.

I know; there’s always something holding me back from it, and in lighter moods I am so grateful for those things. I know it might get better. I have to put my care in that, but it doesn’t mean I can simply ignore the way this crying and these tears aren’t enough. It’s supposed to be the release, yet I can cry for hours and still feel the same. 

I went for help many months ago, and I’ve fallen back in a worse way. I know there’s help out there, but now I truly don’t care. I know it may not work at all, to do this all over again. I am unwilling to do anything at all it seems…. and that’s the biggest problem.

Fear has a grip on me, anxiety, negative expectations, low self-esteem…These aren’t things pills, or talking through with someone else can fix. It might help in realizing things, but the way I see it, it took years to get me as unhealthy as I am now, so it will take years to fix it. I am not sure I’m up for that. I don’t have years to get myself together. But I’ve got right now to fall apart completely.

I have been drawing for hours at a time lately. It keeps me away from other thoughts. I wish I knew what was wrong with me. I can’t change the past, so why do I let its guilt and embarrassment affect me now? Why do I remember what hurts when nothing calls for it? I guess because the past holds a lot of emotion. Hurting is better than feeling nothing at all for so long, in my eyes at least.

Goodnight.

 

All the lonely people…

    I’ve had all the friends I’ll ever have, and they’ve all gone away. I avoid making new friends in the real world now. I don’t answer the phone because it’s never anyone for me. Why am I still living? What kind of life is this where I’ve trapped myself so severely, isolated myself beyond the point of insanity? Why go on? I’ve lowered my dosage by another 25 mg, meaning I’m taking the least amount I can without cutting a pill in half, and I feel like dead weight. Throw me away already, I am nothing good. Damn…I can hardly get out of bed now simply because I can’t find the motivation to do so. Sure, there’s a lot I can do, many hobbies, but I just can’t move some mornings. It’s to the point where my legs and hips will ache as I lay, and I still don’t move, despite the increasing pain. It’s as if I don’t care if it hurts to lay there, I just don’t want to leave my bed and face the task of occupying another day.

50 mg, of Zoloft. That’s all I’m taking now. One tiny pill, and I guess I got what I wanted. It’s not so scary to think about pain anymore.  Not like when I was on 150 mg of Zoloft..lol. That’s only because I was twitching and moving and thinking too much, and too fast to consider pain and death. I was actually living during those few weeks. Not anymore. Now I know I truly can’t expect anything to work out for very long…this medication’s effects wore off too soon….at least that’s what I’m guessing happened.

There’s a feeling welling up inside that tells me something has to die soon in my life. Maybe it’s a way of thinking I have, maybe it’s a relationship within the family, or maybe it’s simply a bad habit, but something needs to die. That includes my physical death. Wouldn’t that be a weight at least off my family’s shoulders? My inability to get a job, or to make contacts and relationships makes me believe I can’t live and be independent. That scares me, because it means I might be a leech the rest of my life, and I don’t want that. But then I ask myself what I do want, and I come up with nothing. That doesn’t scare me; it makes me think I’ve just figured out the answer to every problem. If I want nothing, I shouldn’t take anything, not even another breath.

Things got complicated. And I realize I’ve not gotten better, just more tangled in the nightmare, too involved without anything to offer. I can not solve it.

So Anxious….

           I think I’m getting more anxious about interacting with people than not. Distrusting of more than what I thought. Before it was only crowds that I stayed away from, now it’s as if I’m feeling unsafe around people as individuals, not just the crowds anymore. I’ve been watching too much news; there’s something conflicting going on in my head. I know life is short, I know I should do my best to live the best way I can. I am trying, and instead of feeling guilty for my opportunities and for being the burden I’ve always considered myself, I’m really stuck about how to change things. There are still things going on with my family that do affect me. And as grateful as I try to feel for what I have in my life, there’s still that thought echoing about how I really should be gone. How I really should find a way to disappear.

I’ve been approved for more school money from the loan company. It eats me up inside knowing I have debt already. Thousands of dollars. And it only builds and builds. They expect me to start paying it back six months after I get my degree in a few years. What if it takes me longer to get a job? What if by the time I get my degree, it’s still not enough? There are so many what if’s, worrying about them literally might kill me. 

I don’t understand our society. It hurts to see the price for further education only get higher when it’s almost a fact that you can’t get a decent paying job without something extra, beside a diploma. Everything feels hopeless…you only make it if you want it bad enough in this life. My mother is always shoving harsh realities in my face with talk of college and jobs and money and bills. Thank God we don’t have a gun. Or thank God I’m such a recluse, which keeps me away from everything…

I haven’t been able to write in my journal in weeks. I guess that’s just fine. I seem to have more to say when I at least feel as if I’m communicating to someone else. Somebody real.