10/19/2012

This isn’t normal, even for me.

I think I’m up past…70.  I haven’t cut on my arms since fucking January, it was some kind of fucking record for me.  Nine months?  Not that I stopped cutting, or stopped hurting myself, but I thought I was doing good.  The scars on my arms were fading, I was thinking vaguely of someday wearing a t-shirt again.

Not gonna be for a while, now.

One or two could use stitches, and that’s not so bad.  2/70 = 3%.  I calculated.

I’m kind of stoned, I guess.  Or drunk, or both.  Not sure what’s hitting me first.

The wedding was beautiful, of course.  Damn near perfect, except for the little cunt of a flower girl and her stupid bitch mother.  Mother’s my age, but you couldn’t tell from the way she acts.  Her kids are fucking annoying as hell.

The reception was nice, cleared out early, which suited me fine because I was fucking exhausted.

Have remained fucking exhausted every day since.

It’s like I put every last bit of give-a-fuck into this wedding and now I’ve got nothing.  I don’t care about my classes, I can’t even be bothered to show up on time. Or study.  I consider dropping out daily. 

I can’t get away from the constant blah-blah-blah of fucking useless and pointless commentary in my own mind.  I can’t silence it.  I can’t sleep. 

Midterms are next week and I need to write a paper, but instead I stare blankly at the internet and cut myself and try to find other ways to shut off the inanity.

Things with OkCupid boy aren’t working out, and I don’t give a fuck.  He’s needy, or something.  Soft.  Emotional.  I can’t deal with that.  I can’t have fucking feelings of my own, let alone deal with someone else’s.  He starts in on that shit and I feel like I’m drowning, like I’d do anything to get away.  I don’t think he understood me when I said “trust issues,” and I don’t trust him enough to tell him why I’m so distant, such a fucking cunt all the time.  No one wants to hear that.  No one wants to hear, “it’s not you, I’m just schizoid/autistic/really, really fucked up in the head.”

He’s got some issues going on, too, but he tries to talk to me about them and I don’t know why and I don’t know what I should do and I just shut down, baffled. 

Pathetic.

So I cut myself 70 times in five days and that’s not normal, even for me.  I usually top out around…ten. 

We hit a deer yesterday, and it was anticlimactic.  I was thinking, as we were driving along, that it would be nice to hit a deer, maybe crash into a tree, die, something like that.  But it was a small deer, and we drive an Aztek, so really all it did was dent the bumper a little bit.  I guess the impact did jar my back some.

There’s some school related angst in there somewhere, where I suck at everything I do, and how I just need to quit and settle down as an office assistant somewhere.  Sacrifice the dreams and all that.  The idea doesn’t even bother me so much, anymore, because I don’t even know what my dreams are, so sacrificing them isn’t such a big deal, but something about it is hard to swallow.

And I can’t feel my fingers anymore, or I don’t care that they’re there, so I’m going to call this quits and head to bed and try to get some fucking sleep for once.