2001-09-21 I can't cut without making scars, it seems. I'm sick of it. Really. I just don't know what I should do. Perhaps take all those pills I've been saving. Perhaps wait till I get my sleeping pills prescription renewed. Perhaps leap out of the window. Oh, I don't know. It's cold in here, and I don't want anything. I've lost interest. I don't care. I should do something, I should do things, but I don't care. And I never will again. I hope so, anyway. I've hated this week. I don't really care. I hate tomorrow, and I haven't even gone to bed yet. (Usually it doesn't start until then.) I cut my finger today while cooking. Purely accidental. It doesn't even hurt. I can't shake off this veil of exhaustion. I woke up tired, I'll go to bed tired but unable to sleep. I have four miserable sleeping pills left. They're not enough to give me sleep. Not that eternal one, anyway. My parents are coming here next weekend. I keep thinking that I could, I should kill myself before that. At least try. But I don't want to go bak to hospital. I don't want to wake up again. And somehow I doubt that I could kill myself with the pills I have. 'Nothing here works but your works'. I can't remember where I got that line. I don't even know if it's the correct one. It just feels familiar. So I suppose that's something. Yeah, it's Suede. The living dead. Should've remembered. Oh, I dunno. It's not that bad. It's not real. It's not true. I will sleep tonight and dream and then I'll wake up, but I'll try to forget that. It can't be that bad. |
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