I’m sitting opposite myself, wondering when I’ll be okay.  I’m thinking never at this rate, but who the fuck even cares anymore?  Isn’t it always the same?  Aren’t I always dissatisfied?  Aren’t I always fucked up?  I don’t even care anymore; how am I supposed to hope or believe that other people do?

I don’t even care, and that pisses me off.

But I don’t know what to do with my anger.  I don’t know what to say about it or even why it’s happening.

I can’t hear myself in my own head anymore.  My writing voice is gone.  I’m searching my old journals for it, but I’m blocked.  I’m mute.  I am mute.  How do I begin to say anything?  How do I begin to channel a voice I can no longer remember?

I can’t accept it.  That’s a more precise phrasing.  My voice is in here with me, but I’m judging it so harshly…

I’m afraid I don’t know what to say.  I want to scream at the top of my lungs until I collapse unconscious.  I want lively experiences I’ll never have, living the way I’ve been since graduation.

So, what needs to change now?!  What do I need to do to be happy?  Because college wasn’t it.

Related posts:

1. The Sated Life
2. Help Me.
3. Another Night.
4. Suffering Numbness
5. Torture and Time

I don’t remembering going into the kitchen to get the knife.  But there I stood, by just the light of a lamp at the far end of another room.  I stared at the knife in my hand.  I was surprised I had picked the paring knife.  I thought the Santoku would be my preference.  But it was my forearm that appealed to me now.

The image of the tip sliding smoothly into my skin, drawing that fine line that would beam red even in the dark, almost seemed sexy.  I wasn’t thinking about any possible pain.  I wasn’t thinking about the people in my life.  I was just thinking about not getting caught.

I place the knife on the countertop before me, atop a kitchen towel—a bed for it.

I thumbed the edge to test its sharpness.  I wrung my hands.  I felt the sharpness of the tip with the pad of my pointer.  I wrung my hands.

“Luz?  Luz, why are you in the kitchen?”

Sam was awake and standing in the living room.  I suppose he was looking through the porticoed wall, watching me, because the next words out of his mouth were, “Are you looking at the knives?”

He was ruining my moment, calling me away.

I knew I couldn’t do it, though I saw myself walking out into the living room with bloodied arms on display for him.  I needed time to do it.  It couldn’t be now, not while he was right there.  Later.  Later.

I even left the knife where it was.

It never occurred to me that what I was doing was insane.  It was only his voice that compelled me back.  I walked out into the living room to meet him.

“What were you doing in the kitchen?”

“Nothing.”  My voice sounded dead even to myself.  I was waking up, but I wasn’t quite there.

He asked again.

“Nothing.”

“Were you looking at the knives?”

“No.”

I never lie, yet there I was.  But it wasn’t me.  It didn’t feel like me.  Looking back, I don’t know where I went.  In my head, I suppose.  I was in my head, afraid and numb all at once.

Sam walked me toward the bed.  I was gripping my robe closed.  I was seeing without looking, moving without thinking, knowing without feeling.  I was dead inside–completely.

Then I reached the bed.  Sam hugged me.

And I didn’t stop crying for two hours.

…

I’ve never been as bad as I was last night.  I don’t know what triggered it.  Before the spell, Butterfly asked me what source of happiness I had in my life.  I had nothing to tell her.  Perhaps that’s it: no happiness.  I can’t remember the last time someone gave me a pleasant surprise.  I can’t remember the last time I went out anywhere.  I can’t remember the last time I felt sexy without also feeling afraid.  I can’t remember the last time I had a girl’s day.  There’s been no relief, no release.   It’s just been building and—even cumming feels—less.

I mean, I keep going.  What else is there to do?

Be kind to yourself.  Be kind to yourself. Nope.  Doesn’t work.

Fuck it all.  Be angry. Nope.  Seems like an awful waste of energy I don’t have.

No, I’m fine.  Really.  No problems here.  I’m happy. Doesn’t work either.  It’s even more exhausting, more painful.

So I just keep breathing, keep making it.  One day, this has to feel better, right?  Right?

Don’t lie to me.

Related posts:

1. Another Night.
2. Freewriting Panic Attack: Waking Nightmares
3. Torture and Time
4. Suffering Numbness
5. Questions and Answers