St Bede
2002-09-29 || 12:33 p.m.

Things are so difficult.

I want to write what I want to write but I don't feel that I can.

I don't like nastiness or criticism or being shown and having to recognise what I truly am. I prefer to live with my head in the sand pretending I might one day have a life, or kindness or affection or anything caring at all. Having to face the fact that this will not happen is hard.

I want to die so much. I want to cut and bleed and watch my life flow out of me. I don't want to take tablets because I would panic and get help. I don't want to shoot myself because it would be too quick. And I deserve painful. I don't want to hang myself because I reckon I would fuck it up. I want to bleed because I just do but then again I don't want to leave a nasty mess for others to have to clean up.

Sometimes I think that somewhere I planned all this.

I am just this total dichotomy of needs and desires.

There is one thing I keep thinking about. Its very simple. I just keep remembering lying on the church floor, having been positioned, as blood runs down my thigh.

And its things like this that I just cannot and should not write about. I never knew there was anyone else that felt like this, and that loss hurts.