I’ve done no less than four totally mental things in the last 24 hours. I’m probably the only person in the world who wakes up and is excited about taking pills. I’ve self-medicated with alcohol for a long time. Until now it has been the only thing that has stopped these voices in my head. Dulled everything to a background noise. Now it’s probably a problem.
My psych says I have to stop the negative self-talk. So far today I’ve called myself a fucking idiot about 11 times, both internally and externally. I have no idea who I am. I can’t see myself clearly. With other people I come alive to a degree. On my own I’m a desperate, wasted thing, mired in my own thoughts.
I’m going to stop posting these things then deleting them. Because writing them and sending them out to the universe helps. I’ve always written. I don’t expect a response or even want one. I just need to write it out. Words help. I’m reading everything from trashy romance novels to Jean-Paul Sartre’s Huis Clos. Looking for clues, trying to find the things that describe me and who I am and why.
Literature is amazing. It has been the one true love of my life. On my bookshelves are old friends, new discoveries, everything. Only words can satisfy. Only words can break the spell. Only words know.
“But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked.
“Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat: “we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.”
“How do you know I’m mad?” said Alice.
“You must be,” said the Cat, “Or you wouldn’t have come here.”
― Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland