Picking up again

Saturday night, listening to Moz as per usual. I came back home from ********* house as couldn't face the prospect of pretending to be having a good time after I spotted ********** with his girlfriend walking around Dalston. Wish I had never seen that. I stopped on my tracks and nearly dropped my turkish pizza, and called over to Caroline as if trying to show her the biggest injustice being paraded infront of my eyes. I have the feeling that this is going to be one of those moments that my brain will reproduce over and over in years to come whenever I feel like being mean to myself.

I am being ridiculous and I know it....I read once somewhere that insanity is knowing that what you're doing is completely idiotic, but still, somehow, you just can't stop it. And that is exactly what I do.

Came home and decided to finish writting that letter for Sarah, my therapist, while listening over and over to "Please,please,please let me get what I want" by The Smiths. Of course, managed to make myself cry in the process ( I am very good at that), when Alex my housemate walked in the house. I had to make up some stupid excuse about me watching a particularly emotional movie to account for my puffy red eyes and the make up down my cheeks.

Very bad day, but then again, they all are. I had a plan when I came home, a plan that involved me getting in the bathtub and with my little sharp scissors and harm myself a bit, but so far I have managed to avoid it. I am not really fighting it, I am just doing something else at the moment. I know I will do it before the night is over, because, sadly, I had a good lay in today and I know I will not be able to fall asleep tonight: I will just replay in my head those 5 seconds that earlier tonight made my existance intolerable. And therefore I just need to be emotionally exhausted, which normally leads to physical exhaustion.

My last session with Sarah is this coming Wednesday, and I feel very ambivalent about it. On the one hand, I am glad it is over, but on the other hand I know that the reasons why I am glad it will be over are all the wrong ones. I should not be left to my own devices.... things really are getting worse than ever. I am losing my mind again and I can't help it. Rather: I don't want to help it. I don't want to keep trying. I just want out. Even being around my friends and the people that I love has become extremely difficult, and most of the time I just want people to disappear. The cracks are starting to show

I used to think that I could write how I feel so one day I could look back on it, and see how much my life has moved on. Now I don't do it anymore because I can't put my ideas together.... nothing comes out of depression,there is no sudden rapture of genius. I suppose you DO have to be Van Gogh or Bukowski to do something like that. When you are an artist, you will create...regardless of what is happening inside you or around you.

I will smoke one last cigarette and listen to "my love life" by you know who one last time before I decide what I do with myself.