Make It Stop

I'm a good person.

I didn't deserve this.

Why stay alive?

Today, I cried.

No novelty. I see you rolling your eyes from there, on your high horse.

But I cried for all the words I didn't say and probably never will. For all the truths I've swallowed...but why? Why do I swallow anything that's a truth? I keep telling myself I'm doing it to spare you any hurt. I'm doing it because you've hurt enough and you're a good person and don't deserve to have painful things said to you.

The reality is, I'm doing it to spare myself the agony of losing you from my life for good. Because once I really say all I want to (and let's be honest, all you deserve to hear), you will walk. Because "you don't need this." Because you are trying to do what's right and don't deserve to hear things that hurt, right? Right.

So I cried for the silence that weights a world inside my lungs. I cried because I'm not normal, and that's probably why I was never worth it. I cried because I hate myself so much for feeling, that I destroyed my arms in a rampage. I cried because I stopped just in time to not hurt myself bad enough to die. I cried that I have nothing left I can say, that will remotely cause you to take pity on me and at least hold me like a friend you don't want to lose.

I cried for an hour straight and all I can think of is hanging myself. Because I'm just exhausted. Totally exhausted. And I just don't care to try again. Never again.

I cried in spite of Paxil and Prozac. I cried in spite of art and music. I am crying still, because I don't even want to read this or be in my life...

So why would you?

I Am A Giant Idiot

It's too early to be crying already.

Especially when I'm the only one crying.

Why the hell do I still hurt? Or care? No. Not care. I hate that phrase. "I care about you." It's what people tell you when they don't want to say they love you in any way but they pity you. Why the hell do I still LOVE?

Screw this traffic. Screw these tears. Screw this hole in my lungs. Screw how hard I'm trying to not think of you and how easily you slap me in the face out of nowhere.

It's 7:42 am on a Monday. For those of you who wonder if Hell exists: I live it.

Flatline

I moved over to wordpress since this place feels like a graveyard I don't care to visit at the moment. Trust me, things aren't any better over there. But, there's drinking until I find sleep, then new nightmares. Sometimes, there's even beautiful dreams...

Those are worse than any purgatory.

God

What I love the most is being systematically put to death.

All I can do is look at it leave my soul.

God help me I can't go on.

My Orange

You are the orange.

http://youtu.be/cwynKGNRqTE

I am the puppy.

Sigh

Some days are ok.

Others are not.

Today I feel my heart collapsing onto itself.

I hope I cease to exist soon.

That way everyone can be free.

Nieve

I was 18. 

It was December, 2002. Mom was horribly sick, again. But this time Dad wasn't around to take her to the hospital or help take care of her. No one knew what was wrong, except she had terrible pain in her side (which, as of today, we now know was lymphoma spreading to her lungs) and anything she ate made her sick. 

I had a 1992 Ford Probe. My first car. I had just started a job with a chiropractor, as the only other person in the office besides the doctor. I did the reception, registration, insurance filing, billing, collections, dusting, cleaning, fixing the copier, IT support, snow shoveling and picking up his meals...etc. I went got to work at 7:45 a.m. and left at 5:30 p.m., ran home and changed, then went to my second job as a part-time clerk at an FYE Music. My second job was from 6:30 p.m. until about 10:00 p.m. I made $250 a week in my full time one and $75 a week in my part time. I never had a day off. 

Mom was sick. I was alone. My biggest regret, was having to run in for 15 minutes between jobs into her hospital room and finding her all alone in a country with no family. My dad's family had shunned us, blaming her...me...for my parents' divorce. My dad's sister had been best friends with my mom for over 20 years, and there she was, just 7 blocks away from the hospital and refusing to stay with my mother or even visit. I'd run into her room and she hadn't been bathed or the bed sheets hadn't been changed. I'd do it real quick, help her bathe and apologize over and over for having to run. She'd just smile sadly and wave as I ran out. My last image was of her staring out the big window out into the blowing snow.

I was 18, and I drove by the Ivy League, all-girls university I had been accepted into during my senior year of HS on the way to work every morning. I couldn't afford it, in time or money. I would've been on my way to some beginner's Art class at 7:30 a.m., not on my way to unlock a moldy office to rub mentholated gel on Mrs. Hirkach's very dirty neck for 15 minutes, until my fingers locked up and hurt with mild arthritis. Yet, my regret was still...still...being at work while my mother laid up in a hospital room by herself trying to ask for help in her broken English or struggling to make sense of what the doctors were saying without an interpreter. 

I am 28. Snow is blowing. Mom's sick, again. This time I don't think I will get another chance to make it right by her. So I have to make it count. I don't want to regret a thing. 

One day at a time. 

Bye.

"The sweeping up the heart,
And putting love away
We shall not want to use again
Until eternity."

The year is over. Then again it has been for a while.

I hear the muffled sounds of fireworks and laughter coming from outside.

I just threw up the only solid food of the day, and the nausea is overwhelming. And the night is not even near over yet. 9:30 p.m.

I feel deleted from everything. I am nothing. I am no one. Am I even real?

...

What else. I'm dead, yet still somehow living.

I curled up in the shower today, because that's the only way my body could cope with the violent crying and the gasping for air. Somehow I was holding myself against a wall and hot water beating my back as I sobbed against a wall.

I'm dead, yet, somehow I feel every single ounce of everything in my soul. I have nothing to left to say. Nothing that doesn't involve begging and clinging to you like salvation from this purgatory.

I'll start over tomorrow. I'm sorry I am weak. I am sorry I'm not normal. I'm sorry for everything under the sun and moon.