Sleep

I am sitting at my kitchen table in lacy florescent panties and navy blue pushup bra.  Next to me I have a cutting board with a knife, along with some remnants from the salad I just made.  I have two stamps on my hand from last night, and my nailpolish is chipping so I should probably reapply.

The most important part of this scene, however, is my face.  Red, poofy eyes.  Stretched cheeks from rubbing them all night.  Eyebrows slanted downwards, and just a defeated face in general.

Last night was hard for me.  I'm really struggling because I can't go to therapy because I don't have a job.  And I don't see myself finding a good job in the near future.  It's tough.  But I feel like while the job problem is a big problem, it's not the real core issue here.  The core issue here is that I can't even find one reason to be alive anymore.

Last night my friend got me on the guest list for his show.  Which was incredibly sweet of him.  He's a very popular guy, the show sold out, and yet he chose to give me a guest spot.  I am thoroughly grateful for that.  But I feel like I don't even know how to conduct a normal night out anymore.  It just makes me awfully depressed.  I would rather stay at home always and forever so that I don't have any expectations for myself.  So that I don't see everyone else being happy.  So that I don't see a glimmer of hope that dissipates rapidly, sending me into some serious sadness.

On the drive from North Philly to my tiny apartment, Keith asked me what's wrong.  I told him.. I am sick of being a third wheel all of the time.  I am sick of having a giant void in my chest.  I am sick of the fact that I can't enjoy anything anymore.  In the morning, I told Alyssa that I don't even see the point of living anymore, that I hope I will just die in my sleep.  I told her that I am a complete utter fuck up.

Last night when I got home, I got into bed and me (an atheist of many years) prayed and prayed for hours, tears streaming down my eyes, "please please please take me in my sleep tonight."  And when I woke up in the morning, I was so upset that I woke up.  I walked around the house.  I didn't know what to do with myself.  I got antsy.  I needed something to pass the time.  So I got back into bed, eyes puffy with tears, and wrote on a piece of paper over a hundred times, "I just want to die," just to pass the fucking time.

I know that no one wants to be around someone who is this seriously depressed.  I know that there probably isn't any relief coming in the near future.  I know that crying my eyes out in bed and begging for death won't do a damn fucking thing.. because if it did, I would have found SOMETHING by now.

But the truth is.. I really sincerely don't know what to do other than to pretend I'm happy.  It works for a bit.  The positive vibes run through my veins and make me forget about how MUCH I HATE LIVING.  You don't understand.  I don't even care anymore.  I don't give two flying fat fucks that my mom and dad would miss me.

I just want to be put out of my misery.  Fast and painlessly, unexpectedly.  I just want to go to sleep.