Yes. Get a grip. Must rally. I spoke to my nurse. She was pretty oh boy ad nauseam but she did get me to calm down. I got to get back into a routine. Of course I’ll check on Giselle later. She’s going through some shit. I will try to be everything to everybody. I will try to be more like my mom. I will try to tell my depression that I will stay up awake so Giselle won’t be able to sling that at me. I will be so likeable and so sans reproach that no one will ever dislike me or look down on me again. I will force myself to be worthy of everyone or die trying.
I don’t want to die and I don’t want to live. Maybe I should pray for an accident and the wishy washy decision will be out of my hands. Maybe I can eat myself to death. Maybe when my tooth is pulled I could take aspirin and bleed to death.I likely won’t but it’s a thought. Maybe. I’ll just chomp down on tons of fast food and hope to keel over.
Could I maybe go a day without someone being mad at me?
Oh OK. Guess I’ll snack on a couple benzos and try to go to sleep…
I have a new friend. Her name is Giselle. Giselle is almost perfect, except for two things. One is she thinks most people around here are ignorant and backward (she’s not altogether wrong by a long shot, but that’s another story). Second, she has a horrible temper, the kind you never know when you’re going to set off. The kind of temper that you know if you weren’t such a miserable failing fat fuck, you would probably not see.
I don’t mean this sexually, of course, but almost from the happenstance day we met, I pulled out my heart from my chest and gave it to her. Have you ever had such a fast emotional bonding to someone. No, I’m not meaning John Hinckley level to Jodi Foster either, just fixated. I would be happy for her if she met her soul mate and made friends more on her level than my miserable excuse for a human being could offer her.
But sweet heavens, her temper, and my pathetic attempts to make her happy and hide the effects her words have on me. Just one text from her with four dots ending the sentence and I knew she was still angry at me from the previous day’s indescretion. Four dots that mean I’m a lazy fat fuck without her ever having to vocalize such words. I’m on my way to the therapist’s and I’m steeling myself for the inquisition. My therapist can tell something is rotten in the state of Lisa, though. I averted my eyes, curled into myself yet she can still see that I’m shaking. Shaking! What a distasteful state to be caught in, one I try never ever to show. And slowly, my therapist makes me spring a leak, something I’ve never done in front of her before. My tears are streaming like a tearful sow snorting into a tissue. My physical stamina was the issue Giselle had said in vague insults a normal person could handle. That I could “walk around a little, but hey don’t take my word for it, I’m just an LPN.” I had gone to bed earlier than her and missed an important question she asked at two am. Hence my stamina at issue. The words that sent me into a sniveling sobbing ball of rotundity was a physical task she needed help with, “I’m sure you will pitch in a little….” Dots can say what words won’t. Miserable, Lazy Fat Fuck. My interpretation.
I don’t cry in front of people. My mom lying dead in CCU, I wiped my tears away in order to not upset my friend nearby. “She doesn’t know how upset you get does she,” asks my therapist. “It’s because you try to appear ‘normal’ around her, right? She doesn’t know how your mental illness effects you, that you shut down?” I want her to feel that I am normal, that I am her equal, so she will never one day say again, “No offense, but I don’t see how I can continue talking to you as an equal.” I want so bad to be worthy to breathe the same air as she, but my emotional stamina is even worse than my physical.
As you may have noticed of late my brain is really glitching up, like I’m trying to connect broadband internet when my brain runs on Windows 95. Every time I feel happy, i’m readying myself for the inevitable downward turn. Every time I think someone could truly like me for me, my brain says it won’t last. The last time I saw my therapist, she even told me I try to appear normal and hide just how bad my issues are. Can you imagine how much fun that would be to tell anyone I’m with, just what my brain is telling me:
I hear my neighbors talking, so they may be talking about narcing me out to my landlady, who, by the way, thinks i’m M.R.
I’m going to the mailbox. Hope there’s nothing in there that spells out I’m about to be homeless and penniless.
I think the clerk in the store is watching me so I don’t steal something.
If you lose something I’m afraid you’l think I stole it.
If I’m imperfect I think you won’t like me.
If you’re mad at me i shut down completely and think that you’ll never forgive me and I will be alone forever or should just drop dead.
I know my blog has been about as fun to read as being stabbed with a rusty needle, being devoured by characters from Twilight, and drowning in a bucket of stale urine. Today is no exception. I feel like giving up. Everything is going to hell. Jesus might have flown out of this earth, but I’m going to be stuck here or wind up in a home somewhere. I always fail. Always.
I wish I was somewhere where I could never disappoint anyone again. It seems no matter what I do or how hard I try nothing I do is right. Ever.
Persevere bitches! !!! I almost forgot today was my fifth blogoversary. Time flies when you mull over how life blows for five. fucking. years. But seriously I love you all, and hopefully one day I’ll stop having a pity party with dumpster dive cake. Thanks!
No offense, but,
I’m about to tell you
how you are nothing,
Worthless and dim,
How I must enunciate syllables,
Your Neanderthal brain is too slim.
No Offense, but, I told you not to take offense!
Its not my problem you shed a tear, when I said I can’t talk to you as an equal, your mind is just too dense!
Just remember, though,no offense! No Offense!
(Written for an online friend of mine)
Ever since I was a small child, people have tried to change who I am, most of all myself. At age 7, I remember the praying over and over again for Jesus to come into my heart. Not just to avoid certain eternity in hell, but that if He were really in my heart, I could be normal and perfect too. At age 7, I who was already preoccupied with choking to death and dying of a heart attack thanks to TV, believed Jesus would live inside my heart. In exchange for my free fibrillating condo, He’d give me shelter in heaven when He set the world alight and make whatever about me that made people dislike me go away. Ms. Stewart, my teacher would say with certainty that “you’ll be fine,” instead of, “Well, just keep praying about it. Only Jesus really knows…”
Jesus in her heart didn’t stop her from being sadistic and delighting in humiliating me in front of other kids and teachers, or threatening me with her goddamn paddle.
People who claim religion and wear it upon their sleeves are often sadistic and narcissistic, and make everyone else weaker than them suffer. I believe Jesus knows what I mean.
I still pray for God to come into my heart and make me perfect or at least average. There’s just something about me, you know? It’s not so much religosity anymore, but the need to be liked.
What is it about me that at the age of five, my neighbor saw me choking and giggled? When my throat muscles got the lime candy up and I spat it into the grass, he said “Now look what you did. Get back in the house now.” When I told my mother about it years later, she thought it must have been a dream. There was also some debate among therapists as to what happened when I accidently saw his penis when I was four, but that really doesn’t matter now.
There’s just something that emanates from me that people see as wrong, worthless, needs to be obliterated.
As a teenager, they triedto make me an adult, but I had exiled myself from everyone for two years homeschooling, so I acted younger because I hadn’t been around anyone. My highschool principal’s congratulations for my diploma was “Well you’re done.”
Fast forward to Aging Twink, hero of my mom’s passing. That should have killed me.
With this mark on me how will I ever measure up for anyone? I will just dissapoint anyone who remotely cares about me from now to eternity. I am so depressed.