Pain

It's so difficult not to cut.

This is an old image. But the thing is, I struggle everyday not to do it again. This was the early stage. I ended up cutting up both hands. Nothing deep enough to draw blood and leave a scare.

The pain I feel inside is so immense that it hurts even more that no one can see it. How do I explain this? This need to have an outward showing of the pain that I carry inside me.

I've ignored the kitchen all week. I wake up take my pills, feed the chickens and go back to bed. Sleep until noon and then contemplate if I want to get out of bed.

This has been one of my toughest weeks. The laundry hasn't been touched in a week or more. One load sits on my couch folded and ready to be put away. Another load sits in the basket on said couch and yet another load sits clean in the dryer. And the clothes keep mounting up and I just don't care.

This is manic in the opposite direction. I go from doing ok, sometimes even pretty good, to being so down that all I want to do is die.

Everywhere I turn there is something stopping me from helping me get better. I feel lost and alone.

I've made a new friend. That's a good thing. I should focus on that, but instead I focus on all the other little stupid shot surrounding it.

I want drive up to the reservoir and drive my car off the road into the water. If I'm lucky I'll die before I drown. I want to swallow a bottle of pills just to make the pain go away. I want to be comfortably numb.

I want to be taken seriously on how much my illness hurts, every fucking day. I'll stop and suddenly I'll cry over my other partner deciding it was time to move on. I thought I was past that, but I'm not.

I am so bless to have a life partner that puts up with my shit. That feeds me dinner, because left to my own devices I'd hardly eat at all.

I'm writing these things in hopes that they will go away in my head. I write these things in hopes that others will know they aren't alone in their internal pain that no one can see and people refuse to understand.