Listening: Bauhaus, Burning from the Inside

I'm sure you've had days where you were phyiscally messed up, your legs were sore or your back was messed up or you had a lingering headache that just wouldn't leave. You get up you move around and this ache follows you around and maybe you know where it came from or maybe you're note entirely sure. But it's in you and it slows you down and you're more aware of this inane pain than you are about the stuff you're supposed to be paying attention to.

This, what I'll call a moment of lucidity, is how I feel. Only it has little to with a physical state. I'm sort of emotionally sore. I don't have a reason for it, I don't really believe there is a good reason for it. *stuff* that is bad doesn't really depress me. People being mean, money running low or out, being unemployed, having my parents shout at me isn't a downer exactly. It's disappointing, but it doesn't make me brood like this.

Over the past month something inside has slid down from able and happy to disquieted and sad. Every day has been a rollercoaster from abject depression to happiness and laughter and finally coasting somewhere just above melancholy. When I'm with people I'm less likely to be down, but then as soon as I take my leave I go crashing down again.

I'm not really good at talking about it with other people. That's supposed to help and that's an instinct that I have, to talk about it. But often my friends are the last people I want to turn to. Most of the time talking to a friend means listening to them go one about how they feel no matter bad I feel.

It's not that I want to be selfish with my time, but by the time that I feel so bad about something that I know I can't deal with it anymore I can't really spare much attention for anything that is going on outside of me. Having someone try to "relate" to me about how they might feel miserable about this or that makes me feel like I should set my problems aside and listen and help, but I already feel so buried, so unable to move it's nearly impossible to do anything more than nod and say commiserating things when it seems appropriate.

Other folks just take up my time trying to play amateur psychologist with me and I find it really annoying. I don't want my emotions to be so easily written off as an imbalance of time spent in a sedentary position to time spent excercising or the amount of sunlight I've been getting or how close it is till my next period.

I've gone to real psychs and it's a different kind of irritating. They don't jump to figuring out what's wrong. But...I guess it's just tough. I don't trust that many people in this deeply, and I don't really know why. I have a tendancy towards showmanship and no small amount of exhibitionism when it comes to my feelings and ideas. But I like to retain a lot of control, I like to call the shots, and I don't like to put *myself* onstage though I do want explore myself there. But anyway having a professional ask me direct questions just makes me squirm.

Squire has been the only person who would just let me be however I am, well most of the time. But we've kinda drifted since the days I would fall asleep crying in his arms. These days I'm just happy that he stays happy for most of the time that we hang out together.

In the past month I estimate I've experienced moments of sadness bad enough to cry about once every two days. Compared to past experience, this ratio is kinda high. It's just that this week, especially, has had me by the throat.

I always imagined that if I were to kill myself it would involve a lot of pain killers (or alcohol) sharp razors and a deep tub filled with hot water. If the time came to leave then I was gonna leave, dammit, and hopefully with only minimal amounts of pain. But a couple of days ago I wanted a way out, any way. A knife swung about hard enough and fast enough to slice open the carotid, my wrists, maybe between my legs for good measure. I even found myself fantasicing about hanging myself, which is new. Even if I had rope, I don't have anywhere to do it.

I'm vaguely aware that that should be disturbing. But I'm partly inured to it. I've been thinking about killing myself since I was fifteen. What startles me is that back in the day I would put off making any concrete plans because I was waiting to see how something was going to turn out in the hopes that it would be something good, finally.

These days I have quite a bit going for me. Things could most definately be worse. And for a while there good things were keeping me from totally losing it. But they seem to not be enough. Things that I worked hard to have, my job, my apartment, people that consistently light up my life, my friends, my boyfriend, aren't holding my attention any more. I'm losing ground and I don't know how or why.

I'll keep fighting this. Anger has always been an inspiring force for me and it keeps me going when all else fails, and this is really ticking me off.

cause your mornings will be brighter
break the line, tear up rules
make the most of a million times now
Hope
Bauhaus