heart on my hand.
I am an adult. I do not need a caregiver. I do not need adult supervision. I do not need a babysitter. I have to know I am ok to be left alone. I don’t feel crazy. I just believe my soul to be haunted to a degree that I can’t evade torturous pain for more than three hours at a time. I am destined to hurt. It is my penance for whatever pain I have caused those around me for years upon years. I deserve this. There is no other way to describe or justify the hurt that I am forced to endure–the degree of incomprehensible dull pain–does not exist on its own. There is a reason behind the madness. I choose to believe that.
But, here I am alone downstairs with stitches in my neck from a failed suicide attempt not understanding my reason for being here. I don’t realize what reason I keep waking up in the morning for… My parents just showed up in my city yesterday to not have the guilt of my death on their already weak shoulders. They spent 500 dollars on me for no reason other than regret. They dont’ know how to fix me. I understand their concern. I went to a doctor for their peace of mind since they, unfortunately, had to be come intimately involved in my nightmare.
So, I sit here… vodka hooked up to an IV into a vein, my girlfriend getting ready to go clubbing, my head pulsating by the constant fret and worry that naturally happens to my brain when allowed even a second of breathing room. I am contemplating just leaving. A movie sounds good. No one here needs me, and I need to GETTHEFUCKOUT.
I am capable of acknowledging my symptoms enough to realize I am withdrawing. I am getting worse.
I just need a hug from a friend sometimes. But, the only ones that come around are those that don’t want my death on their shoulders. I know the type.