I’m not good at this. Life I mean. Life is messy. Complicated. Painful. I’m cold and empty.
I’m living in a house where I’m hated. It takes every ounce of will power I’ve got to keep from running away. I don’t blame him for hating me. I hate me too. I can’t run away from myself, but I can run away from this house. Well, I could if it weren’t for my kids. I can’t leave them. I’d end up killing myself.
I’m not going to lie, suicide has been drifting through my thoughts. It quickly gets replaced with thoughts of cutting. I resist the urge to slice because I couldn’t bare the guilt of one of my kids seeing my wounds and I’m almost two years away from hitting my 10 year mark. But my knife is here now…
I’m not going to do it. But I want to. So so badly. I’m tired of this weight. I don’t want to do anything because I’m afraid I’ll screw up even more than I already have.
What’s really shitty is I’m not the only one at fault, but I’m the bad guy. I have reasons for my actions, but they’re only seen as excuses.
I’m so sick of feeling every emotion. I can’t enjoy the good ones because I know the bad ones are close behind. I want to sleep, but I’m terrified of the nightmares.
I’m sick of my privacy being ripped away from me. Read my blog. Read my Facebook. Read my Twitter. If I put in out on public space feel free to read whatever you want, but my personal journals are off limits. No one has a right to my journals except me and me alone. The same goes for my personal emails. Stay out!
I’m spiraling. I need to stop. Writing brings me peace, but it’s also my undoing. Time for music.