It's the fear

I have so much anxiety these days, it's indescribable. I remember when I spoke to my psychiatrist back in September, and truthfully told her I had little to no anxiety. Now I’m riddled with it. Not just that I woke up on the wrong side of the bed today, but all of the last two or three weeks. What doesn't worry me is a reminder to what does, and it seems there's a filter of worry covering everything around me. Feeling sick about my breaking heart, fear of sleep, worry of not getting better, distress over my self harm. This endless chase for mental relief, a burden which I cannot truly identify. Like identifying broken street lights in the darkest night.

They say that everything has a brighter side, but if that is true, what's the brightness about lovesickness and fear of sleep? I know they are in some way connected for me, because of the dreams that I’m having. Dreams of messing up, of losing him, of losing myself for him. I really should have brought that up with my shrink yesterday, but I guess that either it slipped my mind or I hadn't figured it out yet. Now our next meeting isn't until November the 1^st, after I get back from Uppsala. Will try not to do anything stupid until I go then. Cause I believe I will do just fine once I’m there, but what do I know?

It's not just that I can't let go of the thoughts that bother me, it's that I also think it's impossible to let go of them.

Just got back home after a trip to the grocery store. They didn't have Lucky Strike as usual (motherfuckers...) so I bought Pall Mall, Level and filtered John Silver. Two microwave meals and some milk. Just in and out of there as fast as possible, with music in my head phones. It's Saturday night and the streets are empty. In Hemse there are no parties going on, no drinking at the corner pub, everyone stays home watching tv or reading a book. There's mostly retired people living here. It's the centre of calm and a sanctuary for the lonely.

I guess it fits me perfectly then. I’m also retired and lonely, just that there's a young side of me as well, that wants to party and feel the buzz of a wild city at night. But not today. Today I wallow in my sadness and the emptiness this village provokes. My anxiety holds me down, drowning me, and in cigarette breaths I choke in my fear.

The floor has swallowed my caffeine pills. I accidentally knocked the bottle over and now I can't find it. Maybe I'm fucking blind, but I can't see it anywhere. Believe me, I have looked everywhere. I'm such a mess. I fuck up everything and I can't live like this. I’m starting to think maybe this anxiety will push off the edge again. Lead me to become suicidal again. Can I really go to Uppsala when I’m like this? I can't even go half a day without my anxiolytic as needed pills and razorblades across my pale, scarred skin.

I freaked out completely. As you might understand I was a bit unstable already to begin with, with the dreams I woke up from, and that heart tearing longing after my love being extra strong or whatever. So when I knocked over the bottle and desperately tried to find it, I just collapsed. Eventually crawled up from crying on the floor, to my chair again, and downed three Sobril, each 10 mg. That's no overdosing by my standards, since that's the lowest dose that works on me. Hopefully...

I’m writing a list of cutting triggers, meaning things that triggered me to cut myself. It's not quite after a standard scheme or something. It seems to be different every time, and sometimes rather weird things. But mostly it's about Him. Sometimes I can't even think of a reason as to why I do it, other than that I “felt like it”.

Just thought of something stupid... those pills I take for my anxiety that are supposed to melt in my mouth but they taste really disgusting so I don't take them anymore... what if I can snort them? Should be sort of the same thing I mean, but maybe that could hurt in my nose instead. Well, nothing feels like cotton to snort, but anyways.

My mind is moving in strange directions lately, my thoughts are more scattered and incoherent than usually. Now where was I? I’ve lost my train of thought, for like the twelfth time while writing this... as I said, scattered thoughts. They are cut up, disorganised and get lost somewhere in my dulled mind. Six tiny puddles of blood on the floor by my chair, I’m cutting deep enough for the blood to run from my arms for minutes after. I’m getting greedy and careless with my self mutilation. Leaving scars that will last, and I scar so easily.