Detached, Distorted

So I’m sat on the top of a hill in the local park. My dog is sate at my feet gnawing at a stick and yet again I feel disconnected. Have you ever seen the child-line video on depression? Probably not but that is pretty much a great way of explaining the bizarre things that are going on in my head. There is some invisible smog surrounding me that is multiplying and muting simultaneously all of my colours and senses.

I am lost. I want to cry and yet I can’t. I know that I should stop wallowing and retreating into myself and yet I can’t. I can’t help but feel that I am somehow lying to my psychologist as I am pathetically shit at putting anything into words. I am turning myself into a victim; a victim of absolutely nothing. I know that I can, it is just that I won’t.

My new job starts on Monday and I honestly couldn’t care less. I don’t  care about the job nor for the money. I am just shit scared that I will be serving people that I know and grew up with. I fear that they will be able to smell my failure.

Worst of all, I’m having nightmares that my mother will waltz up to me and not recognise me. She will pick up a bottle of her perfume and pay for it and say to me “I had wanted my daughter to get this for me for Mothers’ Day”.

I sat and pathetically scraped at my arm. I am no longer causing much, if any, damage when I self-harm and I hate myself for it. Both for damaging my skin and for not committing to my self-destruction. Now that it is summer, everyone has migrated outside into my sacred territory that I had claimed over the winter. There is no solitude.

My arm is swollen from it’s recent assault and my stomach bloated from my recent heavy drinking. I want to let go. I want to let myself free-fall, I can’t though. I crave control too much.

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