Loopy, Lonely and Lost

Posted on: July 15, 2011

I’m tired, but can’t get to sleep. Nearly four in the morning and I am restless and uncomfortable.

Weirdly, I miss the feeling of being out of control. I used to be so afraid, thought that maybe if I could fashion some order out of my life then I’d be okay. But the fear’s still there.

I don’t think learning to be even better at pretending is necessarily a good thing. It doesn’t solve any problem.

I get up, I go to work, I eat at regular times, I shower, I learn to drive, and sometimes I spend time with friends.

I feel like I am rotting away.

I sit in my room and listen to my parents shouting at each other, and nothing means anything. I’m fucking eight years old again, curled up on the floor, wishing it wasn’t happening, living largely in a fantasy world where it’s not.

Every relationship I have is completely superficial. Everyone I know could replace me in a heartbeat.

I miss the raging fire in me that could have led to change, or death. All there is now is smouldering embers, crumbling ashes and lights going out.

Everything shrinks and possibilities disappear. I’m stuck in this city, in this house, in this life. There’s nothing left. Nothing will ever change, except to get worse, until I die.

I know I’m not allowed to be unhappy, or to think about dying, or to cry alone at night. Believe me, I’d rather not. I know it makes me selfish and weak and useless. Those feelings are for other people to express, and I have to shift to accommodate them.

I feel like I’m air. You can move through me all you want, you’ll find no resistance.

I miss a time when music was meaningful. When a song could make me cry, or give me hope. I miss books I could disappear into, believe so deeply I no longer saw the pages.

I miss feeling any sort of connection with any part of the world outside myself.

I’m never going to make a difference now. Never going to do something I can be proud of. Never going to change a life, or find a person I can be honest with, or do something I’ll be remembered for.

And when I die, they’ll say it’s not suicide. They’ll say she was always smiling, or she had everything to live for, or there were never any signs. And I will leave this world without ever being known, without ever expressing myself, without ever having the courage to lay out my thoughts as they really are.

What a waste of life.


1 Response to ""

I’m sorry you feel this way. I can relate to a lot of this. And that *is* making a difference. I hope you feel a little less crap soon.

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My name is Laura. I was once told that I have cyclothymia. This blog is mostly where I write about living as a person with extremes and instability of mood, and the history of a life that led to the development of those symptoms.

I complain a lot, I'm very repetitive, unreliable, and I tend to contradict myself.

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