I checked two things off my “to do” list today – isn’t that enough? They were both work related and I got them done. Thank you, jesus. Yet, as I was going to bed last night, I began scratching all over, and this morning I woke up and had a patchy rash over different limbs on my body. It was disturbing. I do not know what to think of it, other than a food allergy. Or that my body is breaking down, and I am finally dying, without my having to do anything about it. It would be so much easier that way, wouldn’t it? Without having to do anything, just giving in- going to sleep forever and never having to deal with the pain again. Ever.
It is so tempting. I have been toying with it for 13 years, since the other piece that completed me died. Suddenly. That horrid, grey, April day. Since then, I have played a dangerous game with alcohol, prescribed drugs, weed. I’m not as bad as in the early days. I do not have black-outs anymore. I just know it is bad for me. The skull and crossbones cover every beautiful bottle that lives behind a bar. I romanticize it. That will always be my issue.
Because I think of Hemingway, and how he drank. How many other writers did. Isn’t that what you do? No. I know that is not the issue. I understand I use these toxins to block out pieces of myself that are too painful to look at. As if they are pieces of mirrored glass smashed into small pieces that impale me.
I hurt.
I hurt so badly. I have been unable to go to work for 3 days, as the social anxiety and general anxiety have hit me in the gut. Knocked the wind out of my sails. I no longer know how to handle this.
We have been doing interviews for a new position all week, and they are all so eager. I want to scream at them that this is a cruel loop they are starting to lock themselves into. But would they care? They just want a solid job. I thought that is what I wanted before I came here, and I know I need one, but I don’t think I can do this anymore. I don’t think I can handle the pressure, or what my brain imagines as pressure from these people, this place. I need nature. Solace. Time to breathe. And I do not have it here.
I know they think the worst of me (or my imagination does). But I don’t even understand what my purpose is anymore…why did they hire me, when I have nothing to do? Nothing to offer? I am so low right now, I do not know how to bounce out of it. I can barely leave my house without relying on the benzoes and deep breathing to get me there. I imagine the worst, and simply hide as much as I can. I have tried to be a “team player” but they want more, more, more of what one can give – and I simply don’t understand it. Our boss tells us this is a dying industry, yet in the next breath, tells us she expects perfection from all of us. Crazy makers all around me.
And so I am trying to take care of myself this week – I have taken 3 days off, because I simply cannot handle being there. I cannot even look at myself in the mirror and like what I see. All I see is failure. The inability to keep up “with the Jones'” and it is too much for me. Too much for my body, and that is why I think it is freaking out. Migraines, rashes, strep. Too much. I am breaking down, badly.
I just want to go home. I want out. I want money to move, to get health insurance, to be in a place that will make me more content, happier. Where I am surrounded by those I love and who can deal with me. Because no one here can. I am a loose cannon to them. I am the cowboy who rides in and then leaves. And even though it sounds harsh, I do not give a damn, just like they don’t give a damn about me. I am too tired to fight. Too tired to try and climb yet another ring on the ladder. I am spent. I am over it.
I just want peace, simplicity. Being around those who build me up, not tear me down. I don’t want to be alone anymore, because I know what that does to my mind and it is not good. So I have to figure out how to get out of this. How I can leave. I would go today, if I could. But I am stuck. For a few more months, anyway.
I don’t know how much more I can take before I drive myself to the hospital and ask to be imprisoned there, once again. And what hurts the most is that NO ONE understands this. The agony, the pain. And I have to pretend, day after goddamn day, that everything is “okay”, when it’s been going down the toilet for a year. I am broken. I am beaten. I no longer know what to do…
© Sorrow & Kindness
Sorrow & Kindness 