I don’t know what to say. I guess the tears know it all. It’s one of those days where I just don’t feel well. I’m bothered by the shifts and the anxiety is there but I can’t put my finger on the source. Something is grieving and haunting me and I’m stupefied as to what it is. I just don’t feel right mentally. lol. I know that’s an understatement but this is more. Something is troubling me and I don’t know why it is. I just know I feel bothered and upset and irritable. Even D. could sense something wrong with me. I’m on my second tranq. I took one earlier and ended up sleeping. That was good. The in-laws have given me their cold and flu so I could use the rest. But I woke up to the same anxiety.
The anxiety is all over me. It’s hunting me down every time I try to flee. I think something is going on inside the head in which I might have peripheral knowledge. I didn’t tell D. Why? I can’t answer that. It seems lately that I’m shutting myself off from quite a few people. I’m not being dishonest with them; however; I’m not being forthright with what is going on with me. All desire to recover from whatever is wrong with this mind and get better is gone. There is no motivation to do anything but find ways to make it to the next moment or plot ways not to make it to the next moment.
I think I might have a small clue as to the source of my anxiety. I despise bedtime and falling asleep scares me. I cannot sleep without the help of sleeping medication. I just can’t do it. I’m sure there’s a reason why, but what that reason is I do not know. I can only suppose what the source of my terror is. Last night, as we were getting ready for bed, images of the uncle kept floating in and out of the mind. I don’t know how much it bothered everyone. It seemed like we all took to our corners. There was an uneasy quietness in the mind.
Sometin’ to be fearful, for sure.
But the images seemed so far away, as if they didn’t pertain to me, yet somehow they did. It happened four or five times and finally went away. I don’t remember anything after that except it being hard to wake up this morning. I’ve been moody, depressed, agitated, and crazy even for the likes of us.
I hate that bastard. God damn prick.
Now I’m anxious as hell just writing it down. It’s not the act of writing it. It’s that writing creates more familiarity with what went on in that room. I close my eyes while I type and through the sting of tears I can still see the mirror who knows too much, the paper flowers cowering in the corner, the closet where I hide from his heavy footsteps, the bed I am tortured in, and the headboard I grip till it is over. Till it’s over. Till it’s over. Till it’s over.
It is never over. He keeps coming back for me.
Times like this I need some sort of help, but I don’t know what kind or how to ask for it. I suppose that’s why I relish in self-destruction. I just realized how manipulative that sounds. It seems as if I’m forcing people to help or care about us if I just skip a meal, purge my dinner, or slice the skin.
That may be true for her, but I enjoy the sweetness of a good slice on the arm or the refreshing cleanness and purity of starvation for its own sake. It’s not about other people and their reaction. It’s about me feeling good and that’s what debasing and depriving me does: Makes me feel good.
The second tranquilizer has kicked in and the anxiety has lessened. I can breathe again.