2001-03-23 | 07:36 p.m.

What I'm concerned about is the fact that I keep thinking about counting pills...

Like last night I tossed and turned and had this dream that I was laying out aspirin one after another on this large dark wood table. And I was counting them because I had to get to a special number before I started to take them. But I didn't know the number so I just kept laying them down on the surface hoping it would spring into my head.

I don't know of this is bad or not?

Truthfully I haven't really committed to anything. I just keep thinking about counting pills. And it's scary because it's so easy to count them in my mind. Almost as if my fingers could be counting them right now instead of typing and I wouldn't know. I don't know how I should feel. Because really I haven't spoken about this to anyone. And maybe I should. But I'm so afraid to do so also. So afraid to open my mouth and say, 'I don't know what the hell is going on. I just know that it's not working for me, so please help me.' Instead I don't. I sit or stand there with my mouth shut tight. Making sure no one hears a peep - because after all like it would really fucking matter?

And it's not like I'm about to do the act. Because I'm not. At least I don't think I am. I just think that maybe I should be scared at the fact it's such an easy option for me right now. Scared at the fact that I am feeling very breathless all the time. Like slowly a wire is winding around my neck and I'm losing every precious piece of air I need to breathe. This isn't normal. But then why should I be surprised, nothing is fucking normal now a days for me.

I have to do things for me. But I don't see it that way. I don't think I have. And I don't know where my footing is anymore. And I'm scared because things that shouldn't be seem to easy for me to do, say, or think. I wish I could just delete from my mind. Delete everything so I could start with a clean slate. Start fresh someplace I could be normal and kind and beautiful and smart. But that doesn't happen. I know it doesn't. So instead I feel like I'm closed in this cocoon and it's not opening because it's slowly supposed to choke me to death. And here I am thinking of popping pills and drinking them down with stoli. I shouldn't think this. But I do. Fuck how damaged do I have to be before I start to feel right?!

And I bruise so easily now. My pale skin stretched tight over hard lighting looks like a white sheet with black/blue jelly smears over it. My legs have traces of skin being pulled to tight, things being hit repeatedly over the same spot and I think my eyes have seen too much. My hands have done too much anger towards me. And I still allow it. Because for that simple instant I hurt like I should hurt, and everything then feels ok. But that's misery to live life by. And it shouldn't be done. And yet I slip into that role so well. And I have to ask myself why? And truth be told I don't know and I don't think I ever have.



p r e v i o u s // n e x t