So… Exam week just started and I’m really trying my best. I don’t remember studying this much ever, probably because I’ve always studied with people from the same course as me and I’d pick random things up as they talked about it. It was a win-win. Also because I have such shit memory these few days or ever since I kind of… lost it about a year back. I can barely remember what I did the day before or what I have for breakfast (it’s always bread, that’s all I know.), but that’s all in the norm now.
I’d like to say I’ve been having a good time -I have been actually. Having close friends again is the bomb. It’s just that I can’t quite keep the ‘happy’ in me, I don’t know why. I just get really emotionally tired after awhile. I’d like to talk about it but it never feels like the right time. How do I tell my friends when most of the time I’m so happy to see them. So I’m thinking all, ‘Meh, let’s not ruin such a happy moment.’
Blah, with my heart, it never is the right time. That’s why I’m neck-deep in this emotional shit with trust issues and anxiety.
Here’s what’s wrong. Or at least what I hope I can pin point is.
I’m not sure if it’s all the studying or the long lonely bus rides but it’s getting bad again. I can’t sleep and my appetite in the morning is fading. I can feel my body creasing to function and I’m so near my last lap. I’m so worried. Too worried.
I’ve been gasping for air because I zone out and forget to breathe. I can’t stop thinking about him again and I can’t get myself to cry. It’s just this empty feeling I get in my chest when I’m alone and I wonder what the hell just happened. Most of the time I wonder if my day was real. Is that how alot of people feel?
Something along the lines of:
-In the shower-
Me: Woah. Was my friends really at my house today? What was I doing for the last 8 hours? Did I eat dinner? Oh my God, what did I study.
I feel like I’m going back to when I’d lost all sense of time. When I could confuse mornings with afternoons, night and day break. I’d hate being conscious through all of that again.
And I hate to admit it because I’m so ashamed of myself but I’ve started talking my medication again. Honestly, I despise myself for doing it. In a way it’s worst that slashing. I zone out more. My laughter has to be forced and my smile doesn’t reach my eyes, not that I’m not happy for that moment, just that I don’t feel anything at all.
I don’t think slashing is better, hell no. Because of my stupid impulses and emotions, I will probably never qualify to fly as a job and people are going to judge me when they see my scars whether I like it or not. But it’s still the satisfaction of cutting that always gets me. As if hurting myself was a way for me to get the last laugh as I battle against my insanity. After all, it can whisper but it cannot make me bleed.
Unfortunately, it hasn’t been working as well anymore. My head gets heavy but my mind is wide awake. I want to sleep but I can’t because my mind wants to think. Think of what? Of Micheal? Ren? Nope. I don’t know. She doesn’t know. So we just lay there and I picture myself staring at my mimic thinking to her ‘What now?’ and she never really tells me anything substantial. Stupid bitch, it’s been a year and we’re still stuck at square one.
Most of the time I get through the nights thinking of rocking myself to sleep on a hammock. That’s it. No one beside me or in the room. Just me and the sea, and probably a few palm trees at the back.
I feel like crying on the bus all the time. I get close to doing so but I never get close enough. Somehow I never seem to ‘feel’ enough. Almost but not quite. It’s like feeling sick from too much alcohol. You want to puke but you can’t.
I’m thinking that it’s probably because I’m out in public and my depression has deepened to a point where it’s actually conscious of itself. It doesn’t want anyone to know so I don’t cry, nor do I cry when I get home because I can’t explain myself when I do. Then again, I can’t explain why I can’t cry either.
So I feel like my body just absorbs this sadness, as if keeping it for a rainy day or at least till I snap (again) and burst out into hysterics (again) and my aunty would have to scream and shout at me to shut up (again). Till then all I feel is empty. Like the years before Ren and the time after. Except this time I’m also dormant, fearful and… stale, like a french fry forgotten under a cafeteria table.
It could be worst,
I could have been eaten, chewed, tasted and then spat out.
I’m really sorry that this post is such a downer but this blog is for documentation after all. It’s not all rainbows and ponies in Cherie-land, I wish. I just hope that when my psychiatrist asks me what went wrong again, I’ll be able to pull something out rather than stare blankly back at him and say ‘I don’t know.’
Will write about study week soon!
Don’t worry, I’m not cutting. I’m just trying to get better.