2001-08-08 I am reading a book called 'Spider' by Patrick McGrath. It's a story of a man who's insane. It's written so cleverly it's hard, at first, to tell he's insane. I remember Ni. talking about the book. That's why I borrowed it. I'm half way through and I don't think I'm going to read it all. It's boring, almost. Too slow. Nothing that'd raise my interest. I have other books, of course. I'm feeling as if all my writing was superficial and... artificial, somehow. It's like I wasn't writing at all. I need to struggle for words, and I don't know what I'm about to say. I have some things I could write rants on, but it feels so uninteresting even before I get started. It's difficult to write sometimes, and that time is now. I feel all dry inside me. Nothing feels like anything. There's no real interest. Nothing real. I talked to someone ages ago who said that he didn't believe in people who self-harmed to feel real. I sometimes cut because of that. Because I felt as if I was floating, and even the walls around me aren't there. It's hard to explain. I suppose this was because of the psychosis I've been through. That was the psychosis, nothing else. I haven't had that in ages and I suppose Zyprexa is helping with it. I mean, it hasn't been very bad lately. I can control it somehow. Or maybe I can't. Maybe it just goes away because of the meds. I can't know for sure. I don't think he understood how difficult it is when you can't feel your own body. Sometimes the pain is everything that keeps you alive. It's strange, though, because sometimes when I cut I felt no pain at all. Maybe it was a different kind of psychosis, or then it was something else. I'm slightly bothered by this 'psychosis' theory. In a way it's easier to explain everything when all you have to say is 'but I was psychotic'. It gets rid of so much pressure. I can use it as an excuse. Like I can use depression. We talked about it in the group today. Ni. said that it's the same for her. Just another excuse. And sometimes, when it really is difficult to get up and get gone, people just assume you're using the excuse again. But that doesn't happen to me. Perhaps my parents are more understanding, or perhaps I don't use it as an excuse in anything else but my writing. My mom called and wrecked my concentration. I'm not sure why I don't want to write anymore. It doesn't feel like it helped me to get rid of everything bad and evil inside me. It doesn't feel like there's anything inside me. Every time I stand half outside my window, waiting for the cigarette smoke to drift away, I think that I could jump. I live in the seventh floor (or sixth, depending on if you count the first floor or not) and it's likely I'd die. Somehow I don't want to die that much anymore. And I definetely don't want to jump. Not from these windows, anyway. And yet, it feels like a real possibility. I can almost feel myself floating through the air. Fallling and falling and falling. It's easy to imagine it. Sometimes I wonder why. Sometimes I wonder why I bother to continue this useless life of mine when I could just make it end. Easily, too. Because I'm not scared of falling. I'm not scared of dying. I'm not scared of anything. |
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