me
2003-07-17 || 9:57 a.m.

I managed to get out of bed and I'm eating some ricicles. I either have to go to the doctor today or go back to work tomorrow.

For the first time ever I'm seriously thinking about telling a doctor how depressed I am. I'm thinking about showing them where I've been cutting. I'm thinking of telling them that I cry all the time. I wake up and I cry. I go to bed and I cry. I lock myself in the loo at work and cry. I cry when I walk the dog because the sky is so pretty. I cry when I listen to my walkman because although I have no soul, somehow music sounds so lovely. I cry when I think of how I messed up my life so. How every night I would go to bed alone even when I had someone living here with me. I would ask them to sleep upstairs with me because I wanted to be close and they would say no and stay downstairs with porn and pot.

That's the sort of person I am. I'm a real, live human being and yet porn and pot was preferable to me.

I have a pile of post dating back to January, unopened by the front door because I cannot deal with it. I just cannot open it.

My house is filthy dirty. Piles of clothes all over the place. Unwashed bowls, plates, cups, glasses. Sweet wrappers everywhere.

And then there's the loss I really can't deal with. I can't even write about it. I don't know how he is. I know where he is but I have no way of contacting him. I don't have him to talk to and I can hardly bear it.

And of course its not really real although I wish it was. Because it hurts like its real. And there aren't words anywhere to describe it.