February 8, 2011

Dear God,

I feel like I'm cheating on my logical self by pretending that you exist right now,  but I feel like I need to right now. I need to lie to myself to give myself some sort of hope. It's like I need to start living in a fairy tale world to get by.  That's why I've been reading books so much.  (But at the same time,  I stopped reading books over the last few days because I suddenly realized that every book has a sad part. I don't want any more sad parts.  I have enough sad parts in my life). So for the last two days,  God, I just layed my lifeless body out on my bed and cried. Cried cried cried. My crow's feet are burning and I feel new wrinkles forming.  I tried holding in the noises so my roommate wouldn't hear. But I couldn't.  There's no way. And I worked late just to get the fuck away. What do I have to come home to? I'd rather write medical summaries and saturate my brain with discovery motions.

So when I run out of things to do and I'm done crying and I have no where else to drive in circles or sit in parking lots,  I think about the ways I could kill myself.  By gun, by jumping. I don't think much about poisoning myself or slitting my wrists because I tried both of those on February 8, 2001. And here I fucking am. Still alive, still kicking.  Flapping, really.. like a dying fish with blood pouring down the hook, gasping for water on the stony ground.  And for the first time since 2001 I thought to myself (today) I wish I would have fucking died that day. It would have been a much better time for dying. My parents would have been able to find a way to reignite their happiness.  Now if I die, I'm not sure if that would be the case.  I love my parents with every piece of my beating heart. They are the only reason that I am here.

I have nothing else to live for.

September,  20 2014. My appointment with a hypnotherapist.  Hoping she can brainwash the pain away.

Nicole