3:55 p.m. - 10/15/02
no more curses you can't undo...
I didn't really think what I did Sunday was a sign that things were painful for me. When someone told me that my cutting hurt them because of what it meant for me, I had to think about what exactly the meaning was. I forgot that I didn't do it because I'm bad, weak, stupid, incapable of getting better. I have all these voices running around in my head, voices I've collected along the way, and I don't know which ones to trust. Dr. R said that it's good for me to carry people around, to keep them with me this way, but I know he doesn't mean all of them. I still can't distinguish between who is pushing on pain for me and who is inflicting it. I still can't tell who is helping me walk through pain in order to find healing and who is throwing me into it without compassion. I mean, mostly, the invisible ones. I mean the messages I kept to help me survive and the messages I kept to help me live. I can't really tell the difference between them.
It's so hard right now because he's basically all I have (which scares the shit out of me), because I need him so badly, but my fear of needing him makes it hard to talk. I have so much I need to work through, and now I'm just scared about staying safe. I made everything so hard for myself, or maybe it was already hard. Maybe I only did this so I'd have an excuse to give in, or maybe the pain was real, and that consequence- the strong desire to give up- is also real. Maybe my depression is raging, seizing hold of me, and it really isn't my fault at all. Maybe I'm allowed to need help knowing what to do and maybe I'm not. I hate the day before appointments. I can't call him the day before an appointment. I need it so badly. I need 24/7 so badly, but I can't take it. I think, as usual, I'm more scared of seeming to do poorly than actually doing so. I'd rather be struggling on my own and not have anyone know than I would reach out and have it be visible. I hate that I'm so screwed up behaviorally. I hate that I cut Sunday and that my food has been so fucked up. I hate that I can't tell if I'm eating too much or too little. I hate that anyone I tell must be, has to be, disappointed in me, but if I don't tell them I might die. I hate that I feel like I'm dying anyway.
I had gotten to the point where even when things were this awful, I could remember how beautiful and peaceful they had been. When I hated myself, I could remember feeling otherwise. When I felt alone, I could remember being loved. I can't find any of that now. I can't find faith in any of that, and I feel so lost. I don't know what to do. I don't want to relapse, but I'm scared I don't have a choice. I'm scared that's just a cop-out, that everything I'm saying is just a cop-out. I don't want to be alone. I don't. Why does every path I take have to lead that way? Why can't just one of them bring me to a place where I am free?
My recovery brought me to somewhere where I could be safe, but then it went away again. I'm afraid it's always going to go away. I'm afraid the pain will get worse each time it's ripped away. I'm afraid that there isn't any hope, that I'm just going to end up dead and wandering around the blackness I worry comes with that.
What is it about me that no one is here? What is it about me that no matter what I do, I can't have home? Why can't it be possible, just once? I just want one person, one room, one "forever" that doesn't break within three years, six months, a week. I just want one always that stays true to definition.
Please don't let this break me. I'm too broken as it is.
chord
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