Sometimes I get into weird headspaces and decide that because all of my friends are being healthy and exercising and I'm not, eating is undesirable and might as well not eat, since it's more convenient not to. I know it's weird and not healthy, but I can't snap out of it. And I'm also resentful that because everyone lives half an hour away, joining them is not really worth it, especially when everyone is close to home and have options to just go home or want to go home when it's not really the case for me. And I get shit from Father for sleeping over. I hate being left out or left behind, but sometimes I'm just tired of running out every weekend for this or that and spontaneous stuff that's local for them and not for me is just so fucking out of the way. But I still hate being left out. I hate myself. I hate what I am. This is the time when I'm eighty percent sure I'm better off not existing or just alone. I don't deserve other people when I'm just a piece of shit in general. I'm ugly and scum.

Caffeine, Food, Sleep, and the Bad Place

Too much, not enough, even less, and getting there.

Caffeine tolerance level plummeted since college, now manifests as nervous nausea and unsettled mindset. Possibly learned to associate with due-dates.  Exacerbated if coupled with insufficient food intake throughout the day. Need to get out of here.

Calories today involved 2 slices of sprouted wheat bread with salmon cream cheese spread, 4 creamers, two shots of Keurig coffee (10oz total, Gloria, Hazelnut), and about 20 blackberries. Not enough by far, but though of eating makes me guilty and smell of ginger is making me sick. Conflict stopping attempts to eat.

5-6 hours of sleep. Three hours of driving, with about 45 minutes of traffic. Trapped trapped trapped.

Equally spacey and twitchy. Tired, can't sleep on bed (too comfortable, don't deserve it), folding in on the floor is nauseous (fat.).

Feeling like I need to sob.

This is what I have always been afraid of after that time.

Low energy, high irritability, low self-esteem..

...low motivation and libido, negative world views, suicidal thoughts.

I have started to compose a suicide letter in my head. The biggest thought that is keeping me from actually planning for the occasion is guilt. No one should carry the burden of my actions; I don't want them to have it. They shouldn't need to. The mess-up is me and it's not their fault. My letter will attempt to convince anyone who matters that I have made myself to be the piece of waste that I am, therefore they should not care. Erase me completely and achieve something better, because they deserve it.

I am good at shamming okay. There is one person I hate shamming to and so I don't, whom I end up cutting as a result. Then I feel worse for allowing myself to injure this being that is mostly made of patience and perfection.

So at once I lash out as a sign for help and despise myself for being selfish and an attention whore.

I don't like labeling myself as "depressed". In this internet era, it mostly translates to being a bit sad. The word no longer carries the weight of someone who has to fight random bouts of tears. I can't label myself having a major depressive disorder either, because one does not diagnose oneself. Besides, I can still get out of bed, though I hate every moment of it and can't wait to get back.

Admitting that I am depressed feels too much like a passing, attention grabbing remark.

So I don't say it.

I had thought that if I just not give into tears, I would be better. It isn't.

When I don't put up an effort to sham and put inflection and energy in my voice, it becomes small and monotonous. Expressions are hard to maintain. Others think I'm pissed at them and goes away. Why is that when others make non-committal noises and gets into these moods, I feel like I'm getting hurt, but I also hurt when I'm the one doing it? Do they understand that to me, it means that they don't care for me at all? Why is that they don't seem to get the message that I'm only using their mode of communication to say "I feel shitty, please help"?

Sometimes I have to make the effort to breathe.

I lash out might be because I want someone to go past my my anger and tell me that they still love me even though I'm behaving terribly, because my usual pleasant self is not all they care about.

After all these years, I still have the same damned insecurities and issues.

Displacement, not that other mature thing.

First dream I would categorize as nightmare rather than a thriller I've had in fifteen or eighteen years.

In the dream I bawled and cried and then was strong because I couldn't do it in real life.

Feeling slightly better, but thinking about the dream makes me want to cry.

What do you do when it's clutching to your shoulders and chest and you  don't want to admit it but you believe what it says to be true despite what you know being more true.

Sometimes i feel like a good cry will make me feel better

To get rid of that constriction in my chest and the polluting thoughts. Maybe, I keep thinking, maybe a good cry will disperse the impending depression, that it will give me a bit more ground so I don't feel like I'm about to totter into a pit at every which shuffle.

Or maybe I'm already down part way, waiting for rescue, looking into and feeling the unending pit in every thought. Maybe it'll be easier on the world if this trap just goes away, my only contribution to serve the purpose.

Apparently that was not the bottom

Shitty day turned into shitty weekend lead into shitty house situation lead into shittier day lead to shitty food.

Everything has been shitty. I really can't name anything that made me happy in the past week.

Temporarily amused, yes. Good mood? No, not by far.

Guilt.

Everywhere, around every corner
The direction does not matter.

Fuck I'm going to sound melodramatic but I have no other way to describe it

Sometimes the hate and the negativity pools and pools and the more I wrestle with it, the more it threatens to overwhelm me. But I can't let it spill out because no one deserves my shit. I may indulge it once or twice, excusing myself with possible pity given. But when a habit formed, it feels too much like I'm vengefully pulling in the one person I allow to come close. Guilt then rises up like swamp gas.

Sometimes, feel like I have too much nameless hate and frustration.

Distantly I recognise possible causes, reasons, repercussions.

I refuse to let it taint everything around me.

But I can't will it or reason it away.

I eat it up and let it eat me up.

The sludge sticks to my insides, thick, churning.

A wriggling, volatile mass that I don't know what to do with.

Crying is just indulging it; it solves nothing.

It's like receiving complaints that all you do is look at cookbooks and never actually bake, then when you're done buying the ingredients and tools and you are about to start baking the damned cake that they tell you your cake will taste like shit and question your ability to turn on the oven and really, why should you bother since you are completely useless anyway?

Seriously. When someone, on multiple occasions, tell you that no matter what your intentions are, he/she is getting a certain attitude from you, it fucking means either you are unaware of how fucking negative you are or that you're doing something wrong.

It's not saying that you are wrong or he/she doesn't want to talk to you or tell you stuff or that he/she is not listening to you because he/she is a insolent child because he/she fucking can.

Who's the one being arrogant and unable to taking into others' comments now?

Hands, ears, and about caring.

1. My hands got way better until a couple of days ago, when I tried to reduce my medicine intake and father cooked food that had peanuts in it. Don't know if that was the problem, since he tends to blame things like me going out making it worse anyway. But it's only as if the bubbles and redness and swelling is coming back a little and doesn't look like it's about to explode.

10. I started hearing a constant static in my left ear. It's not affected by head position, swallowing, or noise level. Voices do not sound distorted either. I hope it's just a eardrum puncture and not an infection. Father is saying this is because I sit all day. That's what he said for my hiccups yesterday too.

11. At this point, I am very tired of just hearing about what I did wrong, what I am doing wrong, and what I'm lacking. I've been trying to tell myself that's how he cares, but frankly, all these negative messages are only pushing me towards a depressive state. As much as I hate to think that way, maybe he really is just being abusive, like T believes. I get that F may be frustrated by my languor and my lack of progress, but it feels like I am in the wrong no matter what I do. I get told off for eating strange foods when I go out, and I told off for not doing anything, not wanting to do anything, when I stay in. Nothing I do is right.

I am tired of the cocksure attitude he possess on health issues. I'm especially tired of the way he think he knows better than eastern and western doctors alike (but especially of western doctors). I'm tired of hearing about what's wrong with his brothers and sisters and their family like we are superior. I am sick of him saying that I've switched my area of study too many times. More so because I am especially regretting not doing like he thinks I did.

I hate him for pointing out my apathy and idleness, not because it's true, but because it is said without caring about how I am faring about it, only caring that something is done on the issue. I hate that he doesn't seem to care about what obstacles I could been meeting, only that I must clear them out of my way. It's easy to say that he does not care about further schooling, but he does not hear the disappointment and failure and hope in his voice.

Sometimes, I think I can hear his inner hope and aspirations of me better than he can. But the problem is, I can't hear his caring side.

I really want to.
I really tried to.
But all I ended up with is self-hatred.

The static in my ear is gone.

Man oh man, Young Adulthood.

Found my wordpress blog I used to write unkind things on today. Man, was I angry. Actually, it's pretty understandable given the circumstances of a shared room, but now I think it's time to MOVE THESE ENTRIES SOMEWHERE MORE PRIVATE, yo.

Probably here. Under several locks and maybe a couple of ogres guarding the door. How good are ogres as guardians anyway?

EDIT: It turns out that WP allows both private settings and password protected options. I guess these particular not-for-children posts will remain where they are :D

There are other ways to not-scratch but scratch. My unconscious mind is resourceful, creative, and willing to exploit any loophole.

A few times, in attempt to relieve my fingers of that constant, stinging pressure, I bend my fingers forcefully where the swell had immobilized my joints, popping the blisters and the capillaries alike in satisfaction, squeezing my hand shut (oh god, when was the last time I was able to to that?) and watch little pin drops of blood blossom underneath the skin where it's too thick to pop, thinking that the little bits of red are nicer to look at than watching blisters blossom above the skin. I squeeze and damage myself as the a little bit of itch leaves with each little bit of liquid.

Do you know what dead skin smells like? I do, and that's because the sour, damp tinged smell lingers on my hand.

I very much believe that my morbid fascination and lack of squeamishness in ruining my own skin is due to early and long-term exposure to my own bloated and liquid-soaked dead skin, white and undeniably dead and uncared for yet stubbornly kept by the body because that's all it has got against the outside world.

You know, about four days after a bout of very bad episode, the skin above hardens as new skin is made underneath the layer of liquid; you can peel the old skin off in big, satisfying flakes. sometimes it's like peeling a croissant, sometimes like peeling dried white glue off your hands, and sometimes it's like peeling a sheet of leather, tough and thick.

The new skin underneath is smooth and shiny and prone to tearing—there are no guarantees on it staying healthy for long before bubbles rise up to, and press against, the thin barricade again.

I suppose the one upside to these explosive onsets have against the slowly manifesting kind is that the skin becomes tough but not brittle, a little more forgiving about movement than the dried and brittle skin that cracks and tears deep since motility is restrained from the inside and not the outside.

Whether the pain or the itch threw me deeper into hopelessness, I do not know.

Scratch until it bleeds.

I have begun to worry and daydream a lot more.

I worry about skin atrophy and scratching and infections and stressing my hand by holding bowls and plates and chopsticks and by getting into bed and also quite possibly from typing this out right now (I have stopped trying to hold pens some time ago). I worry every time I feel minute bumps underneath my skin, knowing by now what blisters feel like long before they are visible.

Don't laugh it off when i say i think my hand is going to rot off or that I will get skin cancer one of these days because they are fears not completely illogical to me.

You wouldn't be able to go though this stoically, either, if you have watched your fingers swell and fill with liquids before your eyes, hundreds of blisters growing beneath the skin, stretching and merging into one giant bloat. It crushes.

Sometimes the tips of your fingers prickle from not getting enough blood, sometimes they turn blue. A few times the pressure of liquids exceed the force the skin is able to push and liquids ooze out in great droplets on their own. You would squeeze or force your fingers to bend so the outer skin pops to relieve the stinging pressure from the inside, not caring about the damage of the perforated skin that is left behind.

Don't scoff and tell me it can't be that bad when I scream that I itch because I always itch (when have YOU experienced constant itching?), and if I tell you it means I will soon be more than happily compelled to scratch all my skin off, literally, for the possibility of alleviating the itching for that instant. Stop me or I will head off that cliff, as I have done many times.

Don't tell me there's nothing such as unbearable itching until you have stayed awake, fearing sleep, to grasp at the controls that keep you from just scratch, scratch, and SCRATCH.

Father wonders why I never tell him shit.

When I tell him about what I have been/will be doing, he's unresponsive.

When anything bad happens and he is told, he tells me off. Doesn't look very much like he cares about how I am doing and care more about what I have done wrong.

Father wonders why I never tell him shit.

The other day Father was listening on a radio show where a host was commenting off-hand that the "after eighties" youth these days are very "gray"--little hope, little happiness, little motivation--and I can only think of how can we not be gray, when everything as we grow up starts to go shit.

There's really no suitable perpetual audience for this sort of stuff.

It's been a while since I felt crappy like this.
Feeling so doubtful and unsure.
Also needy.
And fat.

Maybe I desperately need some kind of acknowledgement, too.

Stuck stuck stuck stuck stuck stuck stuck
In poor living situation.
I hate it so much.


One can only dump this on another so many times before one feels guilty for ruining precious social experiences and fear for being seen as too egocentric.

My cat and I are similar.

We both attach so intensely, to so few.

We both start missing those we love and rely on
in fear and anticipation of parting.

It doesn't matter that it shouldn't be possible.

All I feel is my extra bits of stomach and the distance we will soon have between us.

They are dominating my motivation and necessity to accomplish.