Numb. Tired. Emotionally exhausted. I couldn’t even write the last few days. My mind has been screaming at itself, and Sam has only amplified it. His insecurity about Butterfly has led she and I to decide to just be friends. However, with his paranoia and insecurity raging, I don’t know if a friendship is even possible—at least, it isn’t possible now.
It’s too bad—I say nonchalantly. In actuality, I liked her a lot. I didn’t feel the need to save her. I didn’t feel I needed to take care of her. I just liked making her happy, seeing her relax into my couch. In return, she grounded me. It was nice while it lasted. I hate that the good feelings never last.
Three people who compulsively self-sacrifice get together. What do you get?
It sounds like the beginning of a bad joke. Feels that way, too.
Can’t forget to mention he feels betrayed. He saw me kissing her in the kitchen. He says he’s never seen me so relaxed. It’s true: I was happy. I shouldn’t have done that. I want to say, “I shouldn’t have done that, I suppose,” but that would mean I don’t quite believe what I’m saying. I guess, I don’t fully. A part of me—I don’t know how big—sees his take on relationships as being extremely unhealthy. I see how this attitude about things can breed codependence. My happy moments are limited to him. He’s the only one with which I can experience happy moments. Even Sang seems to be off limits to me. Everything else is inappropriate in this culture, in this relationship. I’m starting to really hate this country, this human race, this life. If I don’t get back on medication soon—
Forgive me if I don’t write as much as I used to. Understand if I stop writing altogether for some time. Today and these last few weeks, I’ve been struggling more than I ever have. My sleep is empty and frightening; I keep pushing my bedtime back. Food is nauseating; I eat cereal every night because cooking seems like a celebration for an activity I’d rather not be doing. Even my normally fashionable appearance has been simplified to go-to outfits that require no thought or creativity to put together. That isn’t me. I love showing the world how sharp I am. Nothing feels like me, so I feel nothing. I feel nothing, so I’m not me.
Sam keeps saying my voice sounds different, and my eyes look dead. He’s right. I feel dead, like there’s a hole inside me. Its walls are coated with sadness, but in the middle, it’s a vacuum. To keep from going mad, I keep wandering into moments in my head, replaying them even when they have no significance—anything to fill the empty hours, minutes, seconds. Independent thought is dangerous.
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