The Heart

This is something I painted a few weeks ago. I think it goes with this poem alright enough. It’s also the image I have as my blog header.

To Pieces

Soaked by the falling rain
The bottom of a shoe
Always in my face

The live body
The prison cell
Each heartbeat marks
The bars of hell

Release this fury –trace with knife
Along my throat, along my thigh
Those precious blood ways I outline
Tomorrow at the back of mind

Pull my arms and legs apart,
Peel away my veins
Nowhere am I beautiful
My bruised dead face

I dream the open window
My several stories high
I’ve opened everything up
I’ve eaten all my insides

I’m licking at each bone
I bite to pieces,
Here alone

I really don’t have much to say anymore about my life. I don’t see past a year from now. This doesn’t change. I think I’m going to give up looking for a job right now as I don’t even understand how I’m able to function during the day. There’s nothing keeping me together and to be honest I’m having brief moments where I’m all about the details in how to get rid of myself, they’re getting into my dreams again. Things are just so messed up. I should be seeing the good I’ve been given and try to make something of myself, but I can’t get past just not being able to care, just not wanting to be here in the first place. And I feel I’d be doing everyone a favor if I killed myself–sooner rather than later.

But you know already. It’s my same tired story

These Tears Are Never Enough

Alright. I think I’m finished.

For real this time. I will never stop getting in my own way. Trying is useless; from what I”ve already done, it doesn’t even look like I know how to try and give things a real chance.

Today my mother and I almost got hit by a train. We were in the middle of a railroad crossing when I noticed the red lights were on indicating a train near, but the gates hadn’t fallen soon enough. I told my mother to back up the car, but as I said it another car pulled up behind us, blocking the way. I looked at the right and saw the train moving closer and my next thought was of not getting  my foot stuck in the tracks, because I was set to unbuckle and get out of the car. But my mother told me to hold on and she sped the car forward. Afterward she said “those people behind us are probably saying that was a close call for us…”

There’s no point to this story except to say I should have gotten out of that car and walked face forward into that train. The last two days I can honestly say I’ve never felt more infuriated with people as a whole. The waiting I’ve had to do, the nasty attitudes…I would love to reverse the mistake all life and creation has turned out to be.

I want to get this over with. Thinking about what I’ll miss or who will miss me or who I’ll hurt is not going to save me from failing at life or from causing myself more pain by trying to make it. Survive for what? I am not understood, I will not be missed.

One of these nights I’m going to try. I’ll go as far as I can. And if it’s not good enough, I’ll consider it practice, and I’ll try again. With the medicine all gone from me, I do feel more like my old self again. My old, suicidal, depressed for no reason, self. But this time, no longer waiting to feel better.

So alone it hurts.

 

The stitches I pull open
Bone, tainted by the breeze
Moments infected pass with ease
They say ‘I know it hurts but breathe’

My darkened spirit sounds the trill
Another self I’ve got to kill
Pray tell; it’s a quick two or three
I bleed–the panic quells to peace

Between the breath and beating
I say I need no more
Now dazed, half awakened
And watching my blood pour

I protect them from their fear
The nightmare swimming in this mirror
I feel my angel turn away…
This time, the end,
Be near

 

I’m going back to what I usually do. Post my art and crappy poems and leave it at that. My personal life sucks and is not interesting and hearing me bitch about it is a huge waste of time. I’m eventually going to kill myself anyway. It stays with me and pulls me toward it; One day I’m going to get there.

Closer

Something’s going wrong again.

I can’t write, as everything I’ve written seems like complete crap—I’ve never known what I was doing and there was and never can be a meaning behind it. My art means nothing and I can’t even finish the drawings I’m working on now because I don’t feel as if they’re my ideas anymore. I don’t own anything I’ve ever done.

I just feel disconnected, brainless, blank and unimaginative. And it’s constricting in on me. And whatever I might think of doing to fix this is more of a loss at the end of the day.

This is hell.

Why can’t I appreciate what I have and stop bitching about having to breathe? I have a life. It’s going to end one day. Why isn’t that enough anymore? Why don’t I find enough comfort in that anymore?

The last thing that genuinely made me feel better was listening to my mother tell me about her grandmother, on her father’s side, having a pet praying mantis she’d let roam around part of the house. And my mom telling me how there were never any spider webs where it was and how it used to just sit on the piano sometimes. It makes me want to write poems on all the other strange stories like this that have been told to me about my family.

Stories from the past, from someone else’s life, because you know I don’t live enough to have much at all to say.

Last week I slammed my wrist against a wall in my bedroom as a signal to my brothers to shut up. I was trying to sleep. Diplomacy is out of the question. I have lost a lot of respect for them, and actually don’t mind the thought of hurting their feelings.

This can’t last too much longer. I’m getting closer and closer, not being able to stop myself. Yesterday I was just about to hit the side of my wrist onto the edge of my desk when a tired feeling flooded over me, and I dropped every thought and just shut down.

I need to be taken away so badly.

Counting…

I figured taking strange pictures like this would help the feeling go away. But this was taken about two weeks ago, and it’s still with me. I want to slip further. For the past week I’ve taken 200mg, and for a time I was doing alright. Numb as can be, but it wasn’t bothering me. But now the apathy is weighing me down, and I’m thinking about suicide for no other reason than to end my pointless existence. Do I make a little sense?

I actually think it’s more the medication than anything. I don’t know why it is that I’m just now finding out about ”apathy syndrome”, but apparently it’s an effect that can happen in some cases when anti-depressants are taken for long-term treatment. And increasing the dose (as I’ve been doing) will likely worsen the feeling (from what I’ve read)

So, I will make an appointment with my doctor and tell him I want to wean myself off this medication. I don’t care if the depression comes back or if my anxiety worsens at this point. I don’t want to risk taking any other kind of anti-depressant because I don’t want to deal with the unpredictable symptoms again. And I especially don’t want to take the chance getting one that causes weight gain (the Zoloft actually caused weight lose for me).

That’s about it. I’d rather die than feel this way forever; unable to care, and without any motivation– except to break  out of it somehow, to hurt.

I’ll take 150mg tonight, then 100mg tomorrow night and then I’ll make an appointment with the doc to get a liquid form of the drug or something so that it’ll be easier to lower the dose…or something like that.  Taking this medication is the only kind of ‘help’ I have left and I’m choosing to let it go. I’m not making very much out of my life, and I no longer feel my attempts at staying well are working or deserved.  

 

It’s pathetic. I keep thinking about it.

I went to my family reunion today. It was a little bit more on the side of being a disappointment this year, as last year was, but hey, I didn’t expect I’d be around another year to make it to the ‘09 reunion, so anyway. I won a few prizes in the raffle. I made it through the whole day without getting frustrated with my surroundings like last year. But I’m not so sure that means improvement. It only means I had a lucky day where nothing broke the surface.

I’m going to take an extra 50mg of my medication tonight. Something’s not going right here. I keep thinking about taking my knife out, and using it to cut something besides just my tablet pills in half. This doesn’t happen often. But it’s like there are tears I’m keeping held so tightly from falling. I believe crying won’t be enough; that it’ll make this all worse and I will no longer have anything at all to hold onto, you know?

Look at me. Trying to explain a feeling I just can’t make sound very rational. There’s not too much about the person I am and what I feel that makes sense anymore. I’m guilty. My constant gloomy moods do feel like they are my fault. All my fault. And everything I’ve done lately to save myself has fallen short.

It might happen. The next time this odd feeling of being abandoned in some way by another person, or too full on sadness, or too sick with the world or the very body I’m trapped in…When I can’t breathe as I think of how I’m so easily thrown aside by others; or further, when I feel I should not only be thrown aside but shredded up and thrown away. I’ve got to deal with this some way.

I’m slowly working on new writings, but I’m definitely repeating myself. What’s below is something I wrote that hints at the three month course I took. I feel just as connected to it right now though. Just in a slightly different way.

Pages of butchered work
Somewhere else, I went
From all hell…this evidence
A slit throat of hurt

They made me out in the dark
Zaps, frizz and jitter of will
Cycled in unreal certainty; the chill
Guarded shrine of my still, dead heart

To be given a chance
The lie must be exquisite
A firm belief; a rare incision’s
Edge and unknown plan

 

Enough

Too much has been going on at once in my life right now. Or maybe it just feels that way. I’m constantly trying to distract myself from feeling this sort of loss inside. I’m waiting on other people now before my volunteering can begin at the hospital.

Why the hell does society have to make everything so difficult? I’m basically being harassed by debt collectors about my student loan. They’ll get their money when I get a damn job. It makes me want to lose it. Life costs too much and it isn’t worth it to me. Never was…is never going to be…

I received a letter from my therapist. An apology letter actually. She’d like me to come back, but I feel at an end with letting others try to pull thoughts from my head. I live in my secrets and they are going to be what kill me. End of story. My mind has already gone back to what it’s comfortable with. Why break it up when there’s nothing of value to me in doing so?

I have moments now where I feel guilt trying to well up, over my still being alive. Over how long I’ve let myself go without punishing myself. Despite the changes I’ve gotten used to, there’s still something about making it through another day that I just hate. I don’t want to have to hold on.

I don’t have faith I’ll get a job. Everything comes too late for me. I feel like any real opportunity will come only after I’m too dead and gone to take it up.

Either fast forward or
Drop and shatter dead
Time, in the rest of life
I’d rather not spend

I feel the edge of sudden end
Cold against my temple
Hanging my stick arms by rope
It wields its knife against my throat

“I’m well” will never mean I’m healed
It drags me away by the strings of vein
From my wrists, pulled through their bone
The blood ways wrestled from my soul

My voice lends a base
I understand that I should die
In gray of graves, a funeral haze
My blade peak high

After

My right ear
Against the floor of my cell
I’d know of it, if I could see
But my eyes aren’t open, and
It’s too late for me to breathe

The night’s resulting splay-
Vile liquid pooling from my lips
Cold crust sealing my eyes shut
Mind pouring in the end

I’ve gone, but the fan above continues
Its swaying motion of brokenness,
The world still throws itself dizzy, round and round
And the eyes of heaven’s darkness still burst and bleed

And somewhere a rain is falling. The heroes
Put away their faces and graze in dark solitude
In shame for the lives they can not admit
Could never have been saved

——

One of the newer ones but it’s from March, before I started class. It’s just finished today that’s all…I don’t know why, but I’m a little nervous about posting any of the more recent stuff I’ve written.  I guess I need to settle with the idea that I’m going to be writing about the same things, until something really changes in my life. I’m far too comfortable with writing about certain things. Even when I do attempt to write on a completely different topic, it always comes back to what’s familiar to me, if I make any sense with that. I’m working on it though.

Not Really Even There

 

I had to go back to see doctors about this rash on my arms and legs. I’ve been telling them it seems to be an allergic reaction to the sertraline (generic of Zoloft) I’ve been taking. But first they wanted to brush it off as bed bugs (hell no is that the problem) then it was a ‘fungal infection’ they suspected. Now they finally want to believe it could be an allergic reaction of some sort. I go to the dermatologist on the 23^rd this month.  

What really surprised me though is when one doctor basically had me embarrass myself, by telling me to take my clothes off to get a better view of the rash. Then when he looked closer at my arms, he pointed out “hmmm, you cut yourself”. I had a flash of heat come over me. Then I just kept telling myself ‘Get through this. Those scars are not what I came in here to talk about’. He wasn’t a prick or anything, but it still felt uncomfortable. He didn’t say anything further about them beyond stating the obvious. I’m surprised at how truly numb I’ve become to how other people react to seeing them. They’re never going to go away, and I wouldn’t want them to. So I’ve decided that when I do go to the dermatologist about this damn rash, I’m just going to come out with the truth and tell them not to be surprised with the scars on my arms. I’d rather be the one to state the obvious rather than have someone else open their mouth about it, about my situation of which they know nothing of. I’m over having this tie me down like it has. Being so scared….I have nothing to fear about being left with scars. It’s other people who are afraid it seems, because who in their right mind would want to hurt themselves like this, right? I wouldn’t want to be around me either, honestly. But I can’t really hate myself for doing something that has literally saved my life a few times now. That’s probably the hardest thing for anyone who’s not been through it to understand. Maybe I am just insane. Trying to defend myself from who knows what…

I’m still looking for a job. My week of clinical training is going alright. I’m proud of myself for getting as far as I have–to the end without missing a day. I mean, I don’t feel anything inside, but I’m aware that I do deserve to feel proud of myself, even if it’s not really there, if that makes sense. My mother says she’s proud of me, my instructor says the same thing (surprisingly), but I don’t trust it will get me anywhere. I am stronger for having gone through with this course, no doubt, but isn’t it really just a loss cause in the end? How far can I really get in life without having something inside to hold me down, to be my reason? I just feel silenced in an extreme sort of way. I feel very dead.

Trash

  Only two weeks of this bullshit left and I’m out. Clinicals pretty much sucked this week. There are some nurses that want to get irritated when I can’t give them a fucking immediate answer, as if I’ve been there for ten years or something. I don’t care if they have the more stressful job; I didn’t make you become a damn nurse, and if you don’t like being one, who the hell is stopping you from quiting? They’re no good to anyone with the kind of negativity I left behind today. I have enough of that.

I would not recommend this course to anyone unless they’re ready to deal with feeling like they want to put a bullet through their head. I’m about ready to pick a date and time to jump. Anything would seem better than trying to fit into something you’re just not made for.

There’s nothing I can hold onto. Not one friend stuck around from my past, I can’t connect with anyone new in the present. What good was I ever? No one knows how to help me because I could never bring myself to ask for it. I’m alone in trying to disappear. I’m weaker than I already assumed myself; I don’t believe when others tell me I am smart or that I have talent; It can’t save me or anyone else, for all that it could mean. We all still die. And we all still suffer as we wait in line.

I don’t want to wake up again. I don’t have anything more to give.