Feeling back to normal, whatever normal has become. I have a big chef knife at home. I caress it like a child when I am ill, against my soft skin, my arms. I have stopped keeping a log of my school activities. I have stopped recording what I need to record. I have stopped loving this world. I am under a cloud.
I feel so responsible for my state, for my darkness. It’s not my fault, but there are things I could do to make life better for myself. Guilt, guilt at every turn. I will talk to my doctor about this. I need a therapist. I don’t have money. I’m seeing one at school in a couple of weeks. I am a student. I’ve fallen out of love with what I love most: art. But here I am, writing, going to school, trying, at least, somehow. It’s so easy to make a romance out of despair. Suicide sounds nice, imagine just falling asleep and sleeping forever. It’d be nice. But suicide is gritty and horrible, taking much effort and planning to secure the deed. It is not easy to swallow enough pills, to cut deep enough. To tie a noose, I’m sure. It is better to live.
I don’t want to get up, I don’t want to leave this blog, to face the responsibilities of the world. I have to eat. To study. Breathe. Attend class. Be brave and face what I must face.