Confessions of a tired being
at least in the end, one person has sorta got me. But even then i'm not sure. We rp the brutal stuff i want. And they seem interested sometimes. but reminding myself they're busy and not upset is hard.
wheni've been too high coming home i've been spiraling. I hear allthenames i go by. And then i hraear caorls name. But i'm not her. thats not my name.
Istill imagined it though. The fight. The worst ending. he calls me by her name to insult me. but i put my hands on his neck like her. I scream and beat at him for it like her. And when he's bloody andunre sponsive beneath my bloody fingers I sob like her.
But i'm neither. i'm barely strong enough to hurt myself let alone others.
Being promised physical harm by strangers online shouldn't make me excited as it does. Okay, show up then. Pull up and make my day.
Is it bitterness? Masochism? I'm so tired of feeling liek people should be treating me like trash, that being actually being treated like shit feels good.
what i wouldnt give to be in the outlast trials.
i keep fantasizing about it. about being in the trials about my hands on the throat of another. what it would feel like to cut their skin wide open. dig my hands into guts, feel warm and loved. mush my hands through meat and tender delicate organs.
i want to be held down and gripped tight, head shoved to boots. collar tugged.
if i could do it once, would it be enough? would i feel sarisfied finally to hurt someone the way i hurt? see the bleed out under my hands.
its not about deserving anything ag his point. i am not owed for the pain. but if otherw cant understand, i want to make them see. they should know. if i were to do these things would i prove to them im real?
I miss youI miss youI miss youI miss youI miss youI miss youI miss youI miss youI miss youI miss youI miss youI miss youI miss youI miss youI miss you
I fantasize about you showing up at my front door
I dream I fly down instead, wait anf wait, and finally we get to talk.
Picture you pullin on the collar, walking me through that old graveyard you told me about. Smelling the rot from the broken mausoleums. I remember i'm taller then you in most of these and it makes me laugh- youre so short.
i picture myself out at the ditch, the smell of spraypain in the air as i spin and drinl. high onshrrooms and taking to carol
This website is as close as I have to actually talking to a psychologist. Verbally admitting anything I say here to other people is the most miserable feeling. Watching them rubber band between being unable to give a shit, to confused why thats going on. Why I never bother to tell other people. The disease makes it hard for them to care about it. Its why I think no ones really noticed anything different from me. They just think i'm being silly, making a dark joke now and then. Not that i'm planning my own suicide. Everyday it gets closer to 30 the more I ask myselff. "is it worth to wait? What sort of retirement is this anyway?"
Another reason I don't talk about any of this is because so many people are actually suffering, going through horrible shit. My existence is just a detramental distraction that only adds to their pain. Bringing up anything I'm dealing with has always been responded to with trying to prove theyre in pain more. So why bother even talking about it? Instead of wallow in self hatred and pity here on my site because I can't tell others whats going on. Not even my husband- He gets that expression like the others, can't form a sentence to say anything of real comfort. Makes promises only for me to never hear about them again. Its not his fault. Its the Disease. Its why i'm just a person living in the same home as him. I sit in my corner doing my thing and thats all I have. You ask to hangout but its just mewatching and not being able to really interact. You struggle to even agree to watch me play something. Put out like its not something you'd ever be interested in.
And then I ask myself again. Maybe I should do it sooner then later.