This is the best

Four more days of scheduled orientation. I’m getting used to what I’m supposed to do on the unit I’ve been assigned. There’s still enough fear in me though to keep me wary of doing/saying anything outside of what’s necessary.

I guess I’ve been okay though. Taken over by the routine of it all–everything else in my life has been set aside ever since I started working. Writing and finishing my art projects…finishing the music to my songs…

People keep asking me if I’m in school or if I have another job, if I have kids and all of that. I say no, no, no, and have to leave them with a lame indication that I might go back to school or have plans to. I have this part time job and have not made any plans past staying around at it for a time. I lost any real reason for my life and for living a long time ago, but nobody wants to hear that. On medication or not, the emptiness is still what I know best.

Maybe this is the best I can possibly feel. Today could be my last day–tomorrow–whenever. Standing outside and looking around but not really taking anything in, what’s it really matter?

To Sunset

A painting for my mother…

Went to a volunteer interview today. I’m actually very excited about the department I’ll be assigned (hopefully) a position. The collection and research part of this massive and extremely impressive museum in my city. It’s the perfect distraction from the nowhere my life is going and I’ll learn some new skills about something I’m interested in. Anyway, I won’t speak about everything else that’s been going on for fear of it falling apart before it even gets started….I’m trying to keep myself balanced. Don’t get too high on hope and don’t sink all the way just yet. And for that, I’m ready for whatever happens. If the door opens I’m going through it no matter what, and if not–well I’ve got a good fix for that too.

Quiet In the Dark

This is the painting I finished a week ago. I wanted to show something about what I hold onto. Everything that hurts basically. And like in the one before this, the person represents one greater than what I am now. What I could be, except in this one she’s with dark around the eyes and a black shape for a mouth representing silence. I didn’t plan this painting out too well, but I think that’s why I liked working on it so much. Even though I didn’t know where I was going with it, I worked in detail, so at least I can feel good about that.

I’ve written more than I have in months from my computer being out so many days. I’ll have some of that up soon hopefully. I’m trying my best not to fall apart as I look back on this past year, my birthday being around the corner and all. I didn’t want the circumstances to be the same, but I have not done enough on my part to deserve a change. And another years is just hard to think about right now.

Without

This is a painting I finished a month ago. It’s taken me that long to really understand what I even created, but I think I know now. This is a figure I take as representing the person I could be being taken down. Attacked, blinded by darkness, without arms representing a lack of control, and the white shape of the mouth represents how the words being spoken are always lost to the surrounding noise and confusion (explaining the white, red, sharp background). Otherwise, it’s just a weird and slightly creepy picture that really has nothing more to offer. I don’t know why I spend time painting anymore really. I don’t do it for money or for people to like me. But maybe it’s so that I can feel I have something to call my own right now. As useless and undeserving as I feel, that’s all I can say.

I wrote something to go along with this that I’ll post later, if I can get my computer to act right for once.

Skull

After three days I finally finished it. It’s painted on a $4 piece of ply wood that was almost flat…anyway, I like how it turned out. I have another piece of wood left and I need a better idea as to what I could try. Hopefully it’ll come to me.

My mind is in pieces but I am still trying to volunteer. Every time I let the thought that something will actually go right creep into my head, it falls through. Seriously though, where do I go from here? I can’t find work, and in this stupid ass city of all places, hospitals left and right knowing they need help, no one contacts me about my volunteer applications, or they do and everything has to be delayed for some shit reason.

And the people here? I want nothing to do with. If another person steps to me in the wrong way, I swear to God… It’s as if this whole city is waiting for someone to snap. It takes all my will these days not to bitch slap everyone that opens their mouth to me. I tell my mother it’s depression, that I’m doing my best, this is just how it is without medication to numb my emotions and block my thoughts. She still seems to think it’s not as serious as it is, that all I need to do is get out of the house more often. That’s true, but I’m sure she wouldn’t be talking to me as if that’s all I need to do if she were to see the latest injury on my arm. I know it’ll leave a nasty scar (had no caution, didn’t even care exactly where it was placed, I just did it).

Yeah, I’m in pieces. Back to having no patience with people, random tears, and contemplating a plan to get out. I feel bad. My birthday is in less than a month. Just thinking about that… I don’t know why it makes me feel so down.

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.  

 

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