I think that if I ever wanted to kill myself--really, really wanted to--then I would play Russian Roulette.  Because if the gun fired when I pulled the trigger, then that's that.  But if it didn't, if I heard the click but didn't die, well then maybe, just maybe, the feeling of that moment, that split second before I knew if I was going to live or die, maybe that would be worth it.  Maybe it would jump start everything in the way I've sat around my whole life waiting for.

But then, I know it wouldn't work that way.  And I don't see myself ever playing Russian Roulette.

Pity.

You be love and I'll be a liar

I was going to write about how much I hate you.  About how you made me want something I'll never be able to have.  How you took away my simplicity, my plainness.  How you made me want something, really really want something.  But it's been a long day.  And much as a novel can't change anything, it made me think a little bit.  Okay, more than a little bit.  And I'm still not sure how I feel about it on the whole, but such is life.  And I think I know exactly where my trepidation lies, but that's not the point of this anyway.

The point is, thank you.  Because you took away my simplicity and you made me want something.  Because I'd still be awful and arrogant and even more boring if I'd never broken the rules before I even knew the place.  So maybe I didn't really understand what I was getting into then, and maybe it's not at all how I live my life now, but it's still part of me.  And it's something I've set aside quite a bit recently (and not so recently, as well).

I know I've come to this conclusion before, but I'm coming at it from a different angle now--I need to find a different way to pursue this...this hunger, this craving, this need for excitement.  It's not that I can't have it.  I just need to find a different way to do it.  And staying up until 3 am will never help.  Neither will contemplating impossible situations (although there are some things I'll still think about, because I think there might be a hint of possibility...even if it is very small).  I have to find something new that excites me.

Okay, I've been saying that for a year now.  The question is--what do I do about it?  Well, the obvious, of course.  I look for it.  I get my ass outside every once in a while (no matter how cold it is) and do things in my free time instead of sitting around being bored or feeling sorry for myself or simply distracting myself the easy way.  But to do that, I have to have some things to do once I drag my ass out the door.  My ability to travel is limited, as is my budget.  And I do still need time to get things done, even on the weekends.

So this is my attempt at a preliminary list:

• Go for a walk (talk about taking the easy way out...but it's something I haven't done lately, so I think it's fair to include it)
• Visit places (museums, parks, small shops)
• Learn something new (how? what? where? cost? commitment?)
• Meet people? (not likely)

Okay, so that's not a terribly good list, but at least it's a start.  I should probably set up a more tangible method of keeping track of what I do or don't do, so that I actually do some of these things, because I know it would be good for me and all that.  

The biggest problem is that while it is good for me on the whole, it still lacks the adrenaline rush/excitement aspect, which is what I'm really after.  And to be fair, maybe just having plans for the weekend will be enough to satisfy the craving, but if it isn't, I'll need to figure out something else.  Regardless, I'm finally getting my lazy ass around to doing something tangible that's good for me, after meaning to for...god knows how many years.  So that makes today a good day in my book.

Hands are shaking, I can't breathe

It's like having an anxiety attack.  I'm sitting here all alone and quiet and suddenly I can't breathe.  I'm gasping for air.  Everything is happening right now.  In this instant, absolutely everything is occurring.  But I'm sitting still.  Alone.  Not moving.  And I can't breathe.  I'm sucking in air, hyperventilating  and it still feels like I'm not getting enough.  My hands are shaking from the single cup of coffee I had eight hours ago.  And it feels like I'm about to explode.

I can't be here.  This place is fucking haunted.  Everywhere I look is a ghost from the past.  I spent three hours rereading my posts from the past year here and I couldn't stop.  I've gotten approximately three pieces of big news/big plans already today and now I can't concentrate.  I was getting things done and now I can't.  I can only sit here and hyperventilate and tremble.  So here I am, a month after I last posted anything, writing again because I'm afraid that I'd lose it if I didn't.  In an earlier life, I would have gone for a run to soothe myself.  Or called a friend.  But I hate running now and I don't really use the phone much.  And besides, what would I say?

I'm trying to get over myself.  I'm really trying to turn into a functional human being and continue my life, but it's not working.  I'm dizzy and frantic and everything is spinning too quickly around me and I just want to tell it all to stop, but I know the universe wouldn't listen and everyone else would just look at me strangely, so I keep my mouth shut and try to contain my raging thoughts.

I had a dream about her last night.  I haven't even really thought about her in months, but here she is, haunting this place.  Even though she's never been here, doesn't know anything about it, even though I've never even fucking met her.  But like I said, this place is full of ghosts, and it seems she's become one of them.  And so have other people.  It's like my life flashes before me every time I'm here, and I can't spend more than an hour in silence without losing it.  The washing machine in the background sounds like a train coming to run me over.  The warm air pouring from the heating vents is poison coming to kill me.  Every word I see on my screen is a reminder of everything I've failed at, even when I haven't failed at it at all, and I don't know how to fix it.

I can't even calm myself down.  Writing isn't helping.  I can fill page after page and I won't be any less anxious, even though I'm trying.  I'm trying hard as hell.  But it won't go away.  I dread being here, I dread going back.  I can't handle this right now, or possibly ever.  And maybe it's that I'm tired and stressed and overworked, but I was okay until things started happening, and then everything spun out of control.  I want to do something reckless to calm myself, but I don't know what.  I have no creative outlet right now.  And fixing things by throwing words at a page gets harder and harder every time, it takes more and more words to get anything right.

This is my morphine, my codeine, my Vicodin.  Each time I need more and more to calm the fuck down, to make my heart stop racing, to ease the knots out of my stomach.  I don't know how to take care of myself right now, and even though I know it'll all be fixed in a few days when I get back to routine, I am drowning in myself at present.  I am out of words to say.  I don't know how to make myself better.

But there it went.  I ran out of words and calmed down again.  This is a drug.  I write enough to push whatever emotion I'm feeling just far enough out of me, and then I'm okay.  It's a coping mechanism.  I'm sorry to fill the space with such worthless rambling, but sometimes I just need it.  Here most of all.