I am completely alone.
I have lost the desire to listen to music or to watch television. I cannot read because my short term memory is so bad. I am sitting in the dark with candles lit and the lonely light that illuminates my keyboard. I am only able to blog and I am not sure how well this will play itself out.
I moved into a new apartment recently. I should say we moved in but I cannot say her name or tolerate thoughts of her anymore. She treats me terribly, like the lowest organism that crawls desperately in the ooze of our perpetual conflict. I am stupid and worthless. She riles at me for not having understood what she means even when I pay the closest attention to all minutia.
She angrily confronts me about all manner of behavior. I am not involved. Our moving experience is supposed to be fun and an event to remember with joy but I am ruining it for both of us. I do not have my priorities in place. I do not pay attention. I stand around when I am supposed to be helping with a project which I do not understand. I am a failure in every sense of the word.
And so has it begun. I am alone in the dark with only my thoughts and an utter sense of futility. There is only one thing remaining for me to do. I am cutting again.
I wait for her to go to sleep and after I hear her customary snoring I gently close the door to our bedroom. I return to my quiet repose at the sofa in the living room which is lit only by the candles in the ornate candelabra in the middle of the coffee table. They do not cast a lot of light so I have added two brass candlesticks, one at each end of the table. I sit in peace and quiet. I avoid self-pity. My lot is clear and I have only to endure it. I must cut.
Is this self-pity, really? I am alone with my thoughts and sad and scared and lonely. I am impotent. There is nothing I can do. I feel sorry for my lot but who would not? Who in a similar situation find other means of coping? Am I so lame that I cannot do anything but sit and worry like a scared rabbit in its darkly lit tunnel? Do I really have no recourse left to me, no thing I can call my own, no thoughts, no hope? Is it really the case that I must cut to re-establish my self-worth?
My mind is reeling from the deluge of emotions that pound upon it like some roaring sea off the coast. I have been fasting and I know from past experience that this can cause me to live in a nightmare. But I simply cannot eat. I cannot drool like a frustrated stoat slobbering at a trough of slop because no alternative exists. Slurp slurp.
[She just walked in and, as usual, I am at fault for something I do not understand. She wanted me to hang the curtain in the bedroom. She accuses me of not caring. She accuses me of ineptitude when I ask her to hold the filial. She says that she does things all the time on her own, the implication being that I should not have needed to ask for her help.As I right she talks in a way that demeans me. She asks me where something is. She tells me that I can hang up my own jackets that she has brought from her mother's apartment. She leaves. As she exits the door she mutters something about calling her if I need her. I don't need her. I don't want her.]
My reticence about eating is affecting the effectiveness of my anti-psychotic medication. I know this but take the medicine nevertheless. I have skipped some doses because I know they are useless and the medicine is very expensive to boot. I know that I am supposed to take the medicine with at least 500 calories of food for it to work. But I cannot eat. I am far too uptight to eat. I make a nutritional shake in the morning which probably has 500 calories in it but I have scheduled my medicine for the evening. I should probably take the medicine in the morning with my shake. But I always forget to do this.
So now I am doing the only thing that is mine and mine alone. I am cutting. I have cut twice on my left arm and once on my right. The first cut on my left was performed with a box cutter which left an ugly and unsophisticated gash which nevertheless bled quite nicely. The second was done with a razor blade I found but which turned out to be dull. I cut once but was unable to locate the first wound to deepen it. As a result it was less satisfying. Last night I cut my right arm with a new and sharp razor I had purchased earlier at Walgreens. It was a nice elegant cut bu not deep enough to bleed more then a small amount. I seeks to bleed a puddle that is at least ten inches in diameter.Only the box cutter gash accomplished this.
The right arm cut was more ritualized. The first two were conducted over the tub and were rather mechanical in nature. The right cut was more artistic. I did indeed put on music, Lycia, and sat at the kitchen table when I cut. I had laid down plastic wrapping paper covered by paper towels. I had a candle holder for ten tea lights on the table. I fastened the blade in a lock wrench to get a good grip on it. Alas, I fastened if in the middle of the blade and as a result the blade bent as it entered my arm. So that's why the cut was so small. Next time I wont make this mistake.
At some level I know that I am doing something wrong when I cut but the moment takes me and I feel a thrill of excitement just before I cut. I think to myself I can do this. It is my experience and no one can take it away from me.
It hurts. That's the only disadvantage to cutting. I ordinarily make two cuts. The first in which I pierce the skin with the razor blade and a second in which I locate the first cut and carve it deeper. I made the mistake of not wiping the wound after the first cut so I could see where it was and precisely locate the blade for the second. I'm out of practice.
I am a fallen angel. All the hopes and dreams of getting this new apartment have fallen along with me. I am reminded constantly of my worthlessness. Cutting is mine and I deserve no better. All the hopes I have entertained, all of the dreams I have had, everything is gone. I don't know what to do anymore. I am impotent. I am no longer the golden boy of mother. I am simple slime that waits to be stepped upon. I now that I am being dramatic but I cannot think of any other way to express my feelings. It is a dismal and disheartening place I find myself.
This is the end of this blog.
I have lost the desire to listen to music or to watch television. I cannot read because my short term memory is so bad. I am sitting in the dark with candles lit and the lonely light that illuminates my keyboard. I am only able to blog and I am not sure how well this will play itself out.
I moved into a new apartment recently. I should say we moved in but I cannot say her name or tolerate thoughts of her anymore. She treats me terribly, like the lowest organism that crawls desperately in the ooze of our perpetual conflict. I am stupid and worthless. She riles at me for not having understood what she means even when I pay the closest attention to all minutia.
She angrily confronts me about all manner of behavior. I am not involved. Our moving experience is supposed to be fun and an event to remember with joy but I am ruining it for both of us. I do not have my priorities in place. I do not pay attention. I stand around when I am supposed to be helping with a project which I do not understand. I am a failure in every sense of the word.
And so has it begun. I am alone in the dark with only my thoughts and an utter sense of futility. There is only one thing remaining for me to do. I am cutting again.
I wait for her to go to sleep and after I hear her customary snoring I gently close the door to our bedroom. I return to my quiet repose at the sofa in the living room which is lit only by the candles in the ornate candelabra in the middle of the coffee table. They do not cast a lot of light so I have added two brass candlesticks, one at each end of the table. I sit in peace and quiet. I avoid self-pity. My lot is clear and I have only to endure it. I must cut.
Is this self-pity, really? I am alone with my thoughts and sad and scared and lonely. I am impotent. There is nothing I can do. I feel sorry for my lot but who would not? Who in a similar situation find other means of coping? Am I so lame that I cannot do anything but sit and worry like a scared rabbit in its darkly lit tunnel? Do I really have no recourse left to me, no thing I can call my own, no thoughts, no hope? Is it really the case that I must cut to re-establish my self-worth?
My mind is reeling from the deluge of emotions that pound upon it like some roaring sea off the coast. I have been fasting and I know from past experience that this can cause me to live in a nightmare. But I simply cannot eat. I cannot drool like a frustrated stoat slobbering at a trough of slop because no alternative exists. Slurp slurp.
[She just walked in and, as usual, I am at fault for something I do not understand. She wanted me to hang the curtain in the bedroom. She accuses me of not caring. She accuses me of ineptitude when I ask her to hold the filial. She says that she does things all the time on her own, the implication being that I should not have needed to ask for her help.As I right she talks in a way that demeans me. She asks me where something is. She tells me that I can hang up my own jackets that she has brought from her mother's apartment. She leaves. As she exits the door she mutters something about calling her if I need her. I don't need her. I don't want her.]
My reticence about eating is affecting the effectiveness of my anti-psychotic medication. I know this but take the medicine nevertheless. I have skipped some doses because I know they are useless and the medicine is very expensive to boot. I know that I am supposed to take the medicine with at least 500 calories of food for it to work. But I cannot eat. I am far too uptight to eat. I make a nutritional shake in the morning which probably has 500 calories in it but I have scheduled my medicine for the evening. I should probably take the medicine in the morning with my shake. But I always forget to do this.
So now I am doing the only thing that is mine and mine alone. I am cutting. I have cut twice on my left arm and once on my right. The first cut on my left was performed with a box cutter which left an ugly and unsophisticated gash which nevertheless bled quite nicely. The second was done with a razor blade I found but which turned out to be dull. I cut once but was unable to locate the first wound to deepen it. As a result it was less satisfying. Last night I cut my right arm with a new and sharp razor I had purchased earlier at Walgreens. It was a nice elegant cut bu not deep enough to bleed more then a small amount. I seeks to bleed a puddle that is at least ten inches in diameter.Only the box cutter gash accomplished this.
The right arm cut was more ritualized. The first two were conducted over the tub and were rather mechanical in nature. The right cut was more artistic. I did indeed put on music, Lycia, and sat at the kitchen table when I cut. I had laid down plastic wrapping paper covered by paper towels. I had a candle holder for ten tea lights on the table. I fastened the blade in a lock wrench to get a good grip on it. Alas, I fastened if in the middle of the blade and as a result the blade bent as it entered my arm. So that's why the cut was so small. Next time I wont make this mistake.
At some level I know that I am doing something wrong when I cut but the moment takes me and I feel a thrill of excitement just before I cut. I think to myself I can do this. It is my experience and no one can take it away from me.
It hurts. That's the only disadvantage to cutting. I ordinarily make two cuts. The first in which I pierce the skin with the razor blade and a second in which I locate the first cut and carve it deeper. I made the mistake of not wiping the wound after the first cut so I could see where it was and precisely locate the blade for the second. I'm out of practice.
I am a fallen angel. All the hopes and dreams of getting this new apartment have fallen along with me. I am reminded constantly of my worthlessness. Cutting is mine and I deserve no better. All the hopes I have entertained, all of the dreams I have had, everything is gone. I don't know what to do anymore. I am impotent. I am no longer the golden boy of mother. I am simple slime that waits to be stepped upon. I now that I am being dramatic but I cannot think of any other way to express my feelings. It is a dismal and disheartening place I find myself.
This is the end of this blog.
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