I’ve been here hundreds of times in the last few months. I grab my laptop, or my phone. I log onto my blog, open a new post, and stare blankly at the blinding white vacant text box. The blinking cursor laughs at me. Nothing comes to mind.I give up and close the app or shut the laptop.

You may have been wondering why I’ve been idle in posting. I wonder too. It’s taking all the energy I have to even type what I’ve already got down. It’s taking all this mental power that I don’t seem to have to put these words down. I hate that I feel so heavy. I’m not sure where this post is going, but maybe if I keep typing, it’ll start to make sense.

I’ve been good. I’ve been bad. I’ve been fine again. I’ve been mad. I’ve been lost. I’ve been paranoid. I’ve been all 6 every fucking day. I try to work through it. I hide it. I’m hiding in plain sight. I want to punch a wall and destroy mailboxes with a baseball bat. You’d never guess that all this toxic sludge is flowing through my veins.

I’m frustrated at things that don’t go my way, which seems like an awful lot. I know I don’t have control of much in life. But god, why can’t things just work out? Why have I been cursed with this curse that hinders me from experiencing something real? I’ve become my own self-fufilling prophecy by denying I have any greatness or good to offer to anyone. I don’t want the world to see me, to know I’m this stupid pathetic little girl dying on the inside. Nobody wants to know that, and therefore I have no idea why I even bother writing this fucking post. I guess it’s a small way to slowly drain the poison out of my blood. Doesn’t feel like it’s helping though.

I’m suffocating inside and it just doesn’t matter because nobody can save me. I’m on my own as usual. Relying on people seems so difficult. I retreat within myself to find some kind of solace but why has that become such a chore? There’s gotta be more to life than chasing the carrot that’s in front of us all. But that’s the thing, I’ve given up on chasing the carrot, and the carrot has withered away. Finding a new carrot is so exhausting. I feel weak and powerless. I’m not wallowing, I just feel legitimately hopeless.

It’s like I can’t catch a break, so I’ve retreated into the only place I feel safe, which is my bedroom. At least here, the real world seems far away. In here, I can at least imagine a better life and pretend something out there is waiting for me. I silently pray for the motivation to lift me up and find whatever it is that will matter to me. Does prayer work? I’m not so sure anymore.

I feel like I already miss the things I haven’t even experienced yet. But I can’t seem to find the strength to bother. I keep myself distracted with little things here and there. A book, a  game, music. Something to throw into the void to appease the queen of the dark. I don’t think she likes what I’m offering anymore.

I love food, and I love coffee. But my appetite isn’t as hearty anymore as of late. And if I do eat, it’s usually barely non-nutritious things. Nothing sounds good anymore.

The queen of the dark like this; she enjoys seeing the little girl within me cower in fear. She always has, and somehow I always feed into her demands. She’s become a life companion. She’s part of the package that is Amy. When you get me, the queen of the dark is part of the deal. You can’t separate her. She’s like a tick, she’s unnoticed but she’s still draining the life out of me.

I went to a gynecologist recently to get my birth control implant removed. It had been three years so it was time to get it taken out of my arm. They had me fill out a mental health questionnaire, which I’m no stranger to. I don’t know why I just don’t lie on them. I mean, to some degree I minimize what I’m really feeling. I don’t want to get put in a hospital again. Although sometimes I wish I could just be in one again for the sake of my own sanity. At least there, I felt like I was taken care of. Someone was always watching, making sure I was ok. But that’s besides the point.

I marked the page with answers like “Sometimes, most days, occasionally, etc…” At the end of the appointment and procedure after she bandaged my arm up, she sat down and gave me this somewhat patronizing gaze. She wanted to discuss that mental health questionnaire. She said things like “if you need help, please go to the emergency room, find a support system,” you know, all that lame, unhelpful cookie-cutter answers. I just gave a fake smile and said I have a therapist and psychiatrist. It was enough to please her, and I went on my way.

Looking through my iris and straight into my soul, I don’t know if you’d guess I’m constantly depressed. I do a good job to hide it. I don’t talk about my therapist or the medications I take unless I’m asked by someone. People just don’t know what to say. It makes them uncomfortable. I’m stigmatized for mentioning the pain inside me. I would love to scream and shake everyone that doesn’t understand. But I don’t. I let them off the hook and turn away, just another fucking clueless person who could give a rats ass. I’m not trying to be selfish, I just wish people cared more. In a world so emotionally vacant, how can I silence the emotions inside of me to appease your ignorant ass? I don’t want to. So instead, I stay in my bedroom.

But whatever. I’m bitter and cold. I’m a tsunami of emotions that you’ll never see. People don’t love depressed and paranoid Borderlines. People want happy. People want convenient. People want anything that has nothing to do with your struggle and pain. People don’t want sadness or raw all-consuming impending doom. You think I do? You’ve been so misguided. The only difference between you and I is that you’re not sick.

People won’t read this or just pass it over. So fuck you, fuck everyone. I hate you all.

 

With bitter regards,