11.27.2005
I doubt even Lassie could help me
I spend much more time at my mom's house than I used to. Mostly just to get out of my apartment for a spell, but also because she talks almost non-stop about her own shit, which is both annoying and distracting. But then sometimes we talk about me and how worried she is for/about me. She gets upset when I admit that I feel awful, but she conversely hates it if I don't talk about myself. I'm not going to lie; it takes too much energy that I don't have to spare. She told me tonight that I dig myself deeper into the hole by making the honest, straightforward statements that I do about how I feel. I told her it's like being in a well, not a hole. It's not that there's not a way out; there probably is. Only I can't figure out how. Am I supposed to deny that I'm in the well? How would that help? She just shakes her head and sometimes she almost cries because she's upset for me. She doesn't want me to turn out like her, although she's "fine." She doesn't make sense.
As for me, yeah, I'm in a well. I've tried some things to get out, but I'm still down here. I don't think about whether I can see the light or not, because that's a cliche I don't want to associate with. She's afraid I'm going to kill myself, which makes me think she's thought about suicide before. I haven't. It's just not in me for some reason. Although yesterday I did fantasize about what it would look like for Joe to come home and find me lying on the couch with a big kitchen knife sticking out of my throat, my fresh red blood still glistening and pooling underneath me. But I think that's more a product of my imagination than an actual desire or cohesive thought to do it.
Again, tired of other people pointing out how sad I am when all I want to do is forget about it until it passes. If it passes. I acknowledge that it may not pass until I can find my own way out, and maybe I don't want to yet. For one, there's only room for one down here, and that's me. I can deal with myself. It's all you other bastards that piss me off. I'd rather be sad and depressed than angry, like I was a few short weeks ago.
And the dreams with Sean in them need to cease. As soon as I can find those Scrabble letter-stickers, the collection to make his effigy will be complete and he'll be out of my system, like Phil was after I made his effigy. At least, I hope so.
Oh yeah, and I just remembered. It's Phil's birthday. If you're reading this, fuck you, buddy.
alannablue at 9:01 p.m.