Everything Hurts...Or Maybe That's Just Me Strangling Myself

Sometimes I think I'm slowly killing myself.  More slowly than anything the least bit intentional.  More slowly than smoking or drinking myself into oblivion or trying hallucinogens until I throw myself off a bridge.  I'm not so melodramatic.  Anymore. But still not completely slowly.  Less slowly than the natural course of living.  Less slowly than enjoying my youth and the spare time of my maturity and waiting on a beach in my retirement years for it all to catch up with me.

I'm worn to the bone.  I don't want to be alone, but I don't want to be touched.  I hope to god you don't read this because I'm not writing it for you, I'm writing it because I need to get it out of the caverns of my mind it's echoing through now.  I've always hated pity, and I think you'll pity me for this.  Or maybe you'll just be sad, but the point isn't to make you sad.  It's not even that I'm sad.  I'm just worn so thin, so tired.  My mental state feels like the emaciated skin-stretched-over-bones body of someone who has been wandering in the desert for weeks, even though it's not the least bit reflective of my physical state.  Just my mind, my emotions.

I want something to happen with her.  I don't even care if it's you or me, but some part of me that is busy loathing myself needs a fuck-up, need someone to make a mistake.  I'm tired of being poised and motivated and hard-working, because that's all I've been these past few months.  And some part of my mind defaults to thinking of her when I hit these points.  Moods, maybe?  I'm not sure what to call this.  I feel like if I met her now, I would.  Which makes no sense and is pointless and stupid and unrealistic, but I need to feel like it would actually happen, even though it couldn't.

I don't know what I've been saying.  If you read this, don't tell me.  I don't want to talk about it.  I just need to spew my thoughts at the internet right now.  I want to do something reckless and foolish.  I want my chances to make a mistake back, because I've been so busy avoiding every single wrong path.  And maybe you're right, maybe I push myself too hard, but what am I supposed to do if I don't?  I'm better at dealing with highs and lows than a mediocre constant.  I need the change.  I'm afraid that I'm too restless for the sort of life I want to (or perhaps am expected to) lead.

I'm okay.  Really.  I promise.  And I'm not just saying that.  This week is hell.  So let me deal with it my way--by drowning my sorrows in empty, hopeless words.  I'll get past it, and I'll get everything done.  I just need a little bit of time to hate myself before I can go back to being okay.