I don’t understand.
I know I’m slow with updates, but thankfully I’m not as desperate for venting as before. The thing is that none of the festivals I mentioned in my last entry were attended. One of them was cancelled, and the other was too expensive. I applied to work at another festival, and by the way I feel now it doesn’t look so bright.
I just. I don’t know what to do. I went to my relatives to visit grandma, and a week after we got home she died. I went back to my relatives for the funeral, and the death has caused hostility between my aunts.
I’ve fallen in lust, and fallen in love, but not with the same person. My celibacy has been terminated because of a drunken mistake.
I didn’t drink, I didn’t have sex, and I was happy with that.
I went through some documents and found the copy of a note my doctor sent to the insurance office, and my diagnoses are listed there. All three. And a fourth one.
It’s refreshing to see that they’ve diagnosed me with things they haven’t told me about, and that my therapist forgot some of them.
I don’t have any words for how angry and betrayed I feel.
I don’t know how to express my feelings any more, and even thought I’m unemployed and out of school I feel like the stress is beating down on me like the sun, and it’s enveloping me like the ocean. It’s filling my nostrils with its dank smell, and it’s stinging my eyes with its reality.
I took a look at my arm a few days ago, and I didn’t even feel guilty for thinking “there’s some space left, maybe tomorrow”. I cut myself around the time grandma died. Now there’s a gap with unblemished skin, and I just can’t wait to fill it with scars.
At least I can sleep. Sometimes. My therapist broke her leg a few days after my last entry, and they called me from the agency to tell me they’d keep in touch about what to do with her patients.
I haven’t heard from them in 49 days. I need to talk to my doctor about getting put on sick leave again, so that I can get insurance money. I need something to live on.
I don’t have any strength left in me. I just want to curl up and cry.
I don’t have any cleverly quoted poems, or anything to write of my own, this time.
I just want to get better, or to not live at all.
It feels like neither is possible right now.
I want to sleep for the rest of my life.