Put Up or Shut Up

I don’t like living the way I am. It’s full of hostility, anger, retreating, not knowing how to make it stop. I am tired of the yelling, tired of the anger, the explosiveness, the fights. I’m tired of re-living my childhood…except this time I’m not hiding in a closet trying not to scream. I’m in the line of fire. I’m frozen, knowing I can’t run, can’t talk my way out of it, can’t win. I can’t escape.

I don’t know what to do anymore. I want to make it stop. I feel like nothing is my own. I have given my rights up, and I don’t have any say in anything. Even if I did speak up, I’m wrong. I am always wrong. I am always stupid. I am always inferior. I am always worthless, until I’m needed for something specific- then I go back to worthless.

This life is nothing. I don’t find it worthwhile. I know exactly how to escape…but I can’t. For a few reasons. None of them very compelling. I wouldn’t get away with it, though. Someone would try to save me, try to be the hero. I don’t want you to save me; I want you to let me go.

Let me go. Let me go. Let me go.

I don’t need this anymore. I don’t want this anymore. I’m tired of thinking it will get better, because it won’t, and it’s useless. It’s terrifying to think that I let myself believe anything could get better. I knew better. I know better. I let myself go. I think things can be like fairy tales. They can’t.

So do I drink myself into oblivion? Cry myself to sleep at night? Claw at my arms wishing I could slash them like I used to? Starve myself because I don’t deserve anything anyway?

Does any of this even work anymore, anyway?

Starving can’t make me numb anymore. Drinking ends. Clawing doesn’t really help and the fear of others seeing my scars again is too great. I covered them, masked them, and put a fucking smile on my face like it means something.

Does any of this mean anything? Am I prolonging the inevitable?

Probably. I think I know what to do…it’s just doing it.

This probably makes no sense. Or it makes a great deal of sense. I don’t know.

Sorry.

-July 26, 2017

P.S- Happy fucking three year anniversary, self. You’ve really made yourself proud this year.

Fuck this shit.

(Three years out of treatment, and this is how I spend it.)