What's that line... hello, darkness, my old friend...?
My friend is making a raging comeback. Yippee.
I do not know exactly what has brought this on but I am knocked down, sideways and can't get up depressed. Those irritating Cymbalta commercials showing depressed people sucking at living? That's me minus roaming around aimlessly in sweatpants because I don't wear sweatpants.
I just stay in my pajamas.
I don't have the luxury of sleeping the day away or even lying in bed with my eyes open praying that a spontaneous lobotomy will occur. I have a kid, I have a job, I have judo, gymnastics, and swim team to attend, and I have a rather important (to me) husband who occasionally would like to see me out of pajamas and showered with a smile on my face. It's a rough life these days.
The thing is, I do shower, smile and dress nicely. It's my mind that is still wearing pajamas and perhaps that is where the conflict begins. I am fucking exhausted and I honestly believe that there is not a soul on earth that understands where I am coming from. Try as he may, my husband doesn't get it and he substitutes his confusion with anger. I don't do anger so I just shut up and stay quiet. I certainly am not talking to my daughter about this and I don't have any girlfriends to call up and bitch about my fucked up life.
So here I am.
I told my husband this morning that I am a really fucked up person and it is really hard to live. His response was to yell at me that I'm not fucked up. Right. Everyone he meets hears voices, sees people who aren't there, and wishes they could carve the feeling part of their brain right out of their skull. Right. I'm definitely not fucked up.
But seriously, I'm tired. I walk a mental high wire, balancing with hate in one hand and sorrow in the other. And then I crash with only my pretend friends to catch me. The reality of my horrors catches up with me on occasion and now is one of those times. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can barely think. The Shelter is screaming and I can't help those babies enough. I am getting that familiar feeling that I am not the one made for this job.
What this boils down to is that I hate my parents. I hate what they did and I hate what they allowed. That hate is consuming me and I feel myself getting angry so I turn the hatred on myself. It is easier to hate me. It is safer.
Until I run out of room for cutting.
And I'm there; I have no more hidden skin available. This is usually where I retreat deep inside but I'm not OK accepting that this time. Problem is, I don't know where to go.
“Shall I Crucify Your King?” #UNITE Linky
22 hours ago