boring

I left poker at 11pm. That is so not like me. Tired, I said, I’m tired. And I am, but also restless in mind, and I didn’t really want to come home, but I didn’t have anywhere else to go.

I told myself, well then, maybe you should write. I didn’t have anything worth saying. Then I remembered my blog, this thing that listens to me when I don’t have anything worth telling anyone. I decided, why not?

I’ve been seriously considering committing myself on and off for the past few weeks. I’m not sure what they could do for me, or that I could afford it, and I keep hoping this is going to pass.

It’s not. It keeps getting worse.

Today I ate until I threw up. A strange compulsion to keep eating past discomfort and pain straight into running to the bathroom because my body was sending it back.

I’ve never done that before. It freaked me out. I cried. I thought about talking to someone. I realized it wasn’t worth talking about. There isn’t anything anyone can do for me. I told myself to get out of the house. Forced myself to pack up my computer and go to the coffee shop to try to do some work for my department. It was hard to think. It took me two hours to do things that should only have taken 20 minutes or so, but at least I did something.

I took Ben to the mall to get his glasses. I walked around, dizzy and nauseous, but telling myself at least I was moving around again and that maybe tomorrow it’ll be easier. I came back home and played Katamari and toyed with the idea of skipping a meeting with some MFA friends. I made myself get up and go. I made myself hang out for 2 hours, barely speaking, so unlike me, sipping my water, feeling like I needed to puke more, eyeing Tedward’s long island.

I got home and played Katamari for a few minutes before I had to leave for poker. At poker I seemed normalish. I laughed. I got outside of myself a little. I won, I lost, I lost, I bought back and won and lost some more and then decided to leave when I hit $10 again. It was only 11pm. I’d been grinding my teeth. I’d been sipping rootbeer and feeling nauseous. I left.

I came home not wanting to come home. Wondering if I’d read or watch tv. I’m terrified of my nightmares. Epics, these nightmares, full of anxiety, and usually, people trying to kill me. Last night, I missed getting killed at first, then knew I’d have to spend each day trying not to get killed while my odds grew smaller and smaller. I wished they’d killed me already. I wished that I didn’t have to keep going, completely anxious, waiting to see if I’d live or die. I thought about pulling a “suicide by terrorist” as a way out. Maybe I did. I know I sorta escaped for a brief period of time at one point, even after I truly believed that trying to run would mean certain death. I’ve learned I never die in my dreams, but if I think I’m as scared shitless as possible, I’m usually wrong and something even more terrifying is waiting in chapter three.

What truly terrifies me is that I know I’m not always like this. That I have really good days and stretches of normalcy. I can remind myself of being like this before and how it passed and how I was fine and more than fine and happy to be alive. But it just doesn’t sound terribly convincing, and even when it does, all I can do is sigh and think, wouldn’t it be pretty to think so? Wouldn’t it be great to wake up in the morning ready to get out of bed, not anxious with a thumping heart, covered in sweat? To be able to walk around without getting dizzy? To smoke a cigarette and not want to jam the burning tip into my flesh? To not have random images pop into my head of me taking a long sharp knife and cutting out all the veins in my arms? To look at the sky and see it is beautiful and to feel it too, instead of remarking to myself that if I was myself I’d like it, and it’s sad I don’t appreciate anything right now, but hopefully soon I will.

I used to think I wasn’t disturbed, that it was the world that was disturbed. Now I know I’m disturbed, and while the world may be absurd, I’m the one with the problem. It’s scary.

I live in a tiny box where my hair has clogged the holes I punched in the top for a rainy day.