this was a diary entry i found from jan 26, 2005:
reading books where characters are schizophrenic & depressed really fucks with my head. i spend so much time thinking that there’s nothing wrong with me – that since i can snap on a 1,000 watt smile, as needed, then i must be milking all of this.
i mean, there’s no way to prove the voices i hear – maybe i’ve just made them up, created an elaborate ruse, to convince even myself.
to see the shifting of things stationary, or things not even there – a symptom of stress and self-indulgence.
i feel forced empathy. i care, in general about the millions of people who’ve tragically died in the world. but i also feel, “so what?”
i feel forced love. i m attached to anything/one that attaches themselves to me – but only in drama, in action and in appearance.
i feel nothing towards so many things and issues, that it’d be a shorter list – to state what i do care about.
all goals, motivations, aspirations are purely so that none can think me lower.
wanting to go to school – a form of self-distraction. to perform closer to my possible level. to feel elated, i suppose, above those who would think me a dull failure.
psychopathic rages come and go so easily – dad talking when i’m reading, him talking while the tv is on & every damn light in the damn house & the cat sniffing, knowing how much shit there is here & that if i could only clean is & clear it & organize is, it would all be so much simpler.
i dream of killing. i think & plot & picture it. and the only thing stopping me is knowing that i’m not that far gone, yet. guilt? i haven’t felt that way, really, for a long time.
but the profession of guilt is an excellent manipulator.
now, i don’t think myself a queen, or Juliet in a Shakespeare drama or Mary, the mother of Jesus. but…
i am keenly aware that i am one of the most intelligent women alive. i can twist people into my molds. i can do anything i’ve ever dreamed of. there’s only two things stopping me:
i don’t really feel like it; and,
people who don’t want to see me success, because, in fact, it will make them failures.
i have a role in this universe, but it hasn’t occurred to me, yet, and so i’m not going to waste what little energy i may have to expend on this planet, doing tings that are, in fact, wastes of my time.
why eat, why bathe, why clean – when i could be listening to everything that surrounds me & it trying to tell me what is the correct thing to do?
it’s as if it’s being spoken in some alien language, and i just haven’t learned to listen hard enough, to be able to gesticulate the syllables to real words.
i am quickly becoming my own interpreter, as i sink ever more quickly into the dark abyss of our minds.
it’s not my mind alone now, i see. there are 3 other decision makers, 3 other opinions and 3 other advisers. the sanest part of it is that i can recognize my own voice & society’s. the craziest – i depend more on the other 2 – the ones that no one else can plausibly admit acknowledgement of. so why can i?
and why, when i’m on all of these meds that should end it all, are these voices, thoughts, visions more active? why can’t i feel anything but seething anger, apathy and boredom? why can i knot feel something between suicidal & psychosis & sleep? why won’t someone tell me what’s happening to me & fix it?
i truly feels unfixable.
but someone should have the balls to tell me that to my face, for christsake. i think the whole point of dr * continuing these meds if to make me fat. he knows they’re not doing anything other than that, but if i’m fat, i will be broken & another “successfully” recovered anorexic on his resume.
holy fuck delusions of grandeur and craziness and instability eh?
