March 08, 2013
11:17
It's so hard to like myself while living in the same house as her.
She yells at me the same way she yells at the dog.
When she goes to bed during the day, I sometimes start doing things. Like cleaning up or throwing things away. It's not like I wait for her to go to bed, but I feel safer out there when she does. And then when I hear the hard and violent sound of her door opening, I experience anxiety and tense up. She usually tells me something I'm doing is wrong.
It's hard to like myself. I made a breakfast that I was pretty happy with today. I told myself it's something I should feel good about, all these things, the small things. I should let them build me up so I feel better about myself. And then she got mad at me. Or maybe I made her get mad at me. She made a snide comment, or at least a comment I interpreted as snide, about how I threw expired mustard out because mustard apparently doesn't expire. Then she barked at me and I can still feel it inside my ear like a cockroach. I feel deafened by her. Muted, too.
I just feel like I need to always be drugged. I need drugs to help me like myself, to stay motivated, to fuck without anxiety. I want to fuck all the time, but I can't because I get too nervous.
I keep encountering girls at the clubs I go to, I go every week because it's an escape from this life here. It feels like an escape from myself. But I can't identify myself so closely with this life. This can't be who I am. But anyway. This past Monday I was dancing closely with a lady who was trashy in all the best ways and then we were kissing, and then she asked about my name and my life, and I really didn't want to tell her anything. I don't want to have this life I have. I want to be out there, in that club, and have a different life that I go home to.
I don't feel good about myself. I feel like everything is impossible. I try to talk to my dad about it, but he just tells me I need to do things. But when I think about doing too many things, I just start thinking about killing myself. I imagine shooting myself in the head, blasting myself into oblivion, until there's no more problems, no more life, no more feelings of worthlessness, anxiety, no more worrying about money, or contamination. A cartoonish suicide. No blood, no gore, just a yellow and red explosion, maybe accompanied by a POW, and then I'm gone, to be someone else's problem.
|