I'm hurting, all the time. And I just don't know what to do. I let school escape and swamp me and I'm drowning and I have no one to blame but myself. I'm trying to rectify this, I am. Twelve hours of homework over the last three days and there is still oh so much to do. And it's not even an issue of organisation, it's an issue of time and motivation. Time is fast escaping and my motivation is too closely tied to my mood. And my mood is out of control. As with most cases, I can control my mood when necessary but I'm letting it go again. Why hold on? It's inevitable that it'll slip again, why stand in it's way? I feel like I'm fighting for nothing. I'm always fighting for nothing.
I'll wake up tomorrow and there'll just be more hurt, more pain. More hours of homework. It's wrong, it's so wrong. I cannot comprehend any of this anymore because it just doesn't make sense. It never did, and it probably never will. Life answers to no one but its own whim. I just feel its wrath, regularly. It's punishing, like I've committed some great crime. And honestly, I believe that. The pain makes me believe I'm a bad person. That I somehow deserve to feel this way. Because I've done something bad. I'm a terrible, awful, horrible person. But how much punishment can one bear? How much more do I have to wear before I've paid off my crimes? What crime could be so bad that I have to suffer like this?
I have a new specialist appointment on the 13th of June, right in the middle of exam week. I've mapped June out. It's the month from hell. SACs, exams, doctors. Everything is happening in that month. It starts in six days. Six days. Six days until thirty days of terror. Of hate. Of self loathing. Of torture. Of loss. I'm so exhausted. Yet I cannot rest. I have to work. Work harder. I won't ever catch up if I don't. And if I don't catch up then I won't ever be good enough. I must be good enough. But how? All I feel is inadequate, like my best isn't enough. It isn't. Those looks I get when my best hasn't been enough. The accusation in their eyes. The cover-up. Then the "it's okay". But we all know that it's not. If it happens again, well. Lets hope it does not. My best is not good enough. I'm not good enough. I can't be good enough.
I'm just too imperfect. These imperfections, these doubts. They're so accompanied by school these days, partnered by roaccutane, married to my illness and pains. Depression's queen. They're all anchoring into the ground, holding me back, holding me fast. I'm struggling to break the chains, and even when I do they all come along for the ride. Dark passengers, lurking in the shadows, always ready to have their say. Drowning out all reason and logic with their awful screams of hate and resentment demanding the full attention of my mind all the time. It's one thing to say I need to shut them out, but it's another to actually do it. Not when they multiply, gain new friends and strike up a chord so much louder than when the depression first arrived.
There is no solitude in cutting. None in silence. None in distraction. Only in sleep. And only then when my sleep is dead, blanked of cryptic dreams that are asking the very same questions I ask myself all day, but also warning me and underscoring the trauma I'm shouldering bravely. Too bravely. There is far too much pride. It's a funny thing to suggest that one has too much pride. I know I do. It's hard to ask for help. Even when you know, without any doubt, that you need it. Is it a product of going it alone for too long, or not even knowing how. For me it is both. And when I do ask for help, I negate the issues that worry me the most. They are private somehow. Like it's my own personal battle. Only I can know them, their secrets. The things they are whispering to lead me astray.
No one knows what to say anyway. A sympathetic look. The pity. The silence. They're not sure how to help. I may not be a starving, homeless child in the developing world, but the trauma of my seventeen years is certainly in a league of its own. People tell me how strong I am, how brave. But it's not strength, I'm not brave. I just don't have a choice. Well I do, that choice is living or dying. But that's a big choice. The choice to stop or go forward does not exist. I can only go forward. There is no other way to do this. It's not even that it would be all over if I stopped, stopping is just not possible. It's not feasible. It cannot be done. Certainly not now that June is only six days away. Six days. I will get to June 1st, I will get out at June 30th. The variable is what state I find myself in. I can't predict, cannot foresee. It will just happen.
I'm utterly terrified. I've lost it now. How can it get any worse? I know it can get worse. It's been worse. This is nothing. I'm still talking. It could be, can be, will be, worse. And I am powerless to change the course of my journey. My delightful fate.
- Sky
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