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“That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant, at all.”

--T.S. Eliot, The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock

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The Awesome Power of Procrastination

*Trigger Warning: self-harm The power of procrastination is so awesome that even though I have been without Internet access for several hours and I have things that I think I want to do, I have spent that time lying on top of my bed thinking about how I would do all the things I want to do if I were to do them. Very productive. I think that the ideas I have are worth so much more in my head, I can fetishize every negative feeling and pretend that it makes me special or interesting in some way. But when the thoughts become words that I type out and read back, I realise how banal everything about me is. That's probably the real reason writing blog posts and writing in my journal gets a little harder every time. Here is a quick list of the things I should be doing right now: On Tuesday I had a very intense dream that was terrifying enough to make me feel slightly separate from my body all week. Even now, everything feels a little unreal and abnormal; I haven't stopped ...
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The Night Shift


It's a little before 2AM and I decided to keep the knives under my pillow. I probably won't need them, but I'll sleep better knowing they are right there. If I sleep at all. I feel pretty wired and more than a little anxious, for some reason I'm trying to cover it up by listening to fun, up-tempo music. It's odd because no one else is here and they wouldn't care even if they were(Maybe I'm playing the happy, upbeat music so that he knows that even though I have to stay up all night to stand guard against him, I'm doing it with perky music and French vanilla flavoured coffee. His body might be asleep, but the him that lives in my head is definitely going to get the message). No one cared weeks ago when I picked up the  broken pieces of the plate I painted more than a decade ago and threw them into the rubbish bin with my shaking hands. I really wanted the whole thing not to mean anything, but my body wasn't giving a convincing performance; it's a good thing no one was watching. I didn't cry. That was good. I don't cry any more when my father breaks things. I think that's good.  All the doors are locked, so at the very least I can keep him from getting to the car. There's no real way to know how bad things will get; so I'm preparing for the worst and hoping isn't really I thing I do any more.


The situation is such a sharp contrast to the life I had a few months ago. Every cell in my body is telling me that I never left this place, that I'm never going to leave. But I wouldn't say I feel hopeless at all. Maybe it's because I'm the only one to blame  for me being here. It's hard to wallow when you're the guilty party. I had the chance to get out and I blew it. All because I couldn't keep my mental illness under control. Maybe it's good that now I have a chance to direct my anger and hatred outwards. I'm finally starting to think that maybe I could forgive myself one day. At the moment the plan is to direct all the destructive feelings outwards and wait for 10 years to pass. By then I will have forgiven myself for what I did, because it would be crazy not to have forgiven myself after all that time. Sort of like an emotional statute of limitations. I like that plan because it requires the least amount of work.

When I stopped taking the Venlafaxine, I told myself it was because the numbness it caused was something I could easily replicate myself. I'm happy to see that I was right. I wonder if this means I'm stable now.

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