I'm so torn apart inside it doesn't resemble anything anymore. I'm cold, sweating and shaking, but my heartbeats are calm. It must be something wrong with my heart to behave that way. It's almost like it has died. Too damaged to know how to react. Or it could just be my medication or something.
I'm in distress with horrible anxiety and overwhelming sadness - taking the edge off it with cigarettes and razors, but I'm so calm. So what good can it do, except for satisfying an endless aching need?
Fuck, I need to stop whining and do something about this, but it's like I can't. The not so sad and desperate music is taunting me. Food disgusts me. Sleep seems so far away. Movies are so shallow and dramatised. Maybe I want to wallow in this haze. The thick, heavy haze like thunder in my lungs.
I'm getting poetic again. Maybe I can make something out of that. Cause that's all it takes. One sentence, and I could write a whole story on that. What is creativity if not that? It's weird that I'm still so creative even though I'm in a terrible state full of anxiety, on antipsychotics and would rather die than live.
My mother called tonight, five or so hours ago, and I told her about the doctor's appointment mishap. I didn't tell her about my suicidal thoughts though, I just couldn't. Though she must know, you must all know, that that is the way it's some day going to end. I'm constantly chased by that outcome, constantly feeling it breathing down my neck, whispering in an ice cold, hollow voice: you have no choice, you know what to do, your fate is sealed.
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