03/11/2013
Most of last week was probably the darkest days of my life.
I was undeniably alone, angry, and suicidal. I didn’t talk to anyone about it until after the fact.
I posted "Insomnia" to Facebook early Saturday morning around five a.m. What I meant is that I was talking with my mother for hours, drinking coffee, and doing my best to smile as she said, "I told you so" essentially. I left there around 12:30 am and then drove around listening to music and wallowing. And then I got back to the apartment I share with Jennie and I sat on the couch and wrote something and tried to fall asleep. But I couldn’t. I laid there for three hours, bawling my eyes out about the present, the past, a fledgling future, everything. I laid there wishing I would just die. The jet-sized hole punched in my chest was radiating pain on so many different levels. Because suddenly nothing mattered anymore; I had lost my entire grip on reality, on anything worth keeping my lungs pumping oxygen.
I thought about writing a letter. I thought about all the people who might care if I died.
I would never do it. I don’t think I could ever kill myself.
But god, I wanted to. Just to make everything stop.
All of the pain, the fucking day-to-day struggling, all the pipe dreams that died a horrible death when I realized how strong I’m really not.
I spent the day at work Saturday, and the soul-wrenching sadness continued to follow me.
I was wallowing and I knew it but I didn’t really see a point in stopping.
I texted Dustin about the electric bill and got a two texts back that included a single number—35—and a word—total—and I flinched while reading it. I made some offhand comment about the electric bill to Kari and she offered to take the apartment and then I could live with her. I didn’t say much to that, but when I brought it up to Colin later he said, "you should do it!" and when I refused he said, "well if you really believe in symbolism that much…."
I responded curtly, "I do" and then I quashed my urge to scratch his eyeballs out.
Yup, that’s exactly what I need. I really need to be living in apartment number 14, where all of my hopes and dreams for the years ahead exploded. I could stare at the exact spot, every day, where Dustin sat when he told me he was never, ever coming back. That sounds like a bucket of fucking fun.
I’m falling apart, that much is obvious.
I deceive myself into thinking that I’m strong, that I can be independent instead of dependent, but no.
I really do suck as a person.
And I’m intelligent enough to know exactly what’s going on.