bpbabble.com

i’m so low so alone i have lost all hope for any change for the better.  it feels as if i’ll never be able to write again and that i’ll never really be able to enjoy or be grateful again.  i am not actively suicidal but i’m so tired and in so much pain that i long to just curl up in a comfortable place and die peacefully and painlessly and not by my own hand.

hold on until it passes and yet there is nothing to hold onto everything of matter and hope has disintegrated. and after a month in bed, which seems the only thing to exist anymore it shows no signs of going away. i have stuck myself in the middle of nowhere,  alone constantly afraid of phantoms of possible futures. too tired too weiry to end my suffering even though i have little hope of it ending. there is no hope, there is no help. despression and dispair is a solitary existence in a vacuumed universe.

what if the place your in is light but it only reflects your misery. what if it is light and all you know is that you can’t be out in it. what if the place your in is not depleating tiredness but the energy you have is lost to nothing but rocking back and forth in once spot, stuck.  what if your brain is not racing out of control but is stuck only on what you don’t feel up to doing. what if you can see the light and it illuminates what is not and what feels like will never be. what if there’s no light at the end of the tunnel because the light is at the beginning and the tunnel is black and all you want is to crawl into the darkness because what you feel and how you act how no place in the light.

i wish i could say that i am just irritable but i’m not; i am so much more. i am anger seething over and everyone is at risk of my venimous thoughts if not my venimous spoken words.  i feel like lashing out everywhere and anywhere and can hardly contain myself this side of self control.  oh, there is always a reason, always a crime but never a moderation in thought or feeling.  i am scared of my anger. embarrassed of it. ashamed of it. it is the part of my MI that i least lay claim to, never thinking it is in me until it overwhelms me.   and how to stop it? and how to stop it?

again am feeling i’ve lost any train of thought and so words become useless entities.  but without words i feel so deprived of self.  writing has a way of making me permanent and without it i just drift into nothingness and i hate nothingness.  i find no peace in losing self.   i am not depressed or completely immobile but i am capable of so little and what i am capable of holds nothing for me.  i swim in the morning and i sit in the hot tub at night and i muddle through the day that is inbetween.  i tire of waiting for tomorror and for the tide to bring me a sail…but i am not by the sea and my waiting room distresses me.

half awake half asleep scripting nightmares from my own life,  my own people.  crying,  screaming,  wondering, unrecognised.  looking for a kind face, a safe place;  looking for sleep around every corner.  tiring and sinking with each step taken, each tear dropped, each searching word spoken.  and the snores chimed in next to me like a my heartbeat beating harder and louder increasing as  the fear of insanity paced my movement in my nightmare state and fear made me finally escape my bed and the pounding and the fear made me uncertain as to whether another day would be lost to inability and fear made me take drugs that would keep at least the insanity at bay and me somewhere safe and somewhat dead.

i thought the salt taste was of the nightmares oceans rushing in and out threatening to take me or to evermore preserve me on the spot but all it was was my own sweat, my own tears and the ocean was simply my body fighting the waves of wanting sleep and unable to keep it steady and quiet.  i will sleep  soon and my obiligations will not be fullfilled and though they involved others that  will inconvenience they were only for myself and when i don’t keep them i loose my sense of adulthood and  defeat myself and i finally wonder if insanity would end all the unnecessary planning and trying and failing.

i have lost my rhythm for writing and in my numbness i feel less than adequate.  numbness and impotency are the worse for me.  i begin to dwell on the leach factor of my existence; of not working, not working long enough; nothing productive in any sense of the word to society or any sense of the word to myself. even feeling no right, as i can often talk myself into when i am horrible depressed and immobile,  that i have a right to breathe.  numbness and idleness bring for me no rights.

boy and best friend adrian. they are in plutonic love. i do not have biological children but if i did he would look just like this and be just like he is - except he’d pick up after himself…  i helped raised “boy” and he is mine as mine can ever be. i am proud to be his stepmother.

one day good, one day bad, one day lost, one day had.  somedays dull,  somedays full  somedays inbetween but, future days are never yet forseen.    

i post and play and put up pictures. i make this site to reflect all of me or most of me or some of me. i put it out for all to read yet knowing few come here and those that do only a couple read and hear. some have come by invite and validated my personhood with wonderful comments and to them a trememdous thank you. i have no validation anymore. this site is me i’ve poured myself into to it. i come here and look at me knowing no one else really cares to see or wants to see. i’m proud of my site and i feel weakness in my pride because in the end there is only me to validate myself and i am never enough. i may have enough but i never feel in my bones that i am enough. i want YOU to say to me that i am enough and more.