and you turn up your nose & you say it's a pose—but baby i'm the worrying kind

All I could think a few hours ago, as my mom yelled at me that she had never ever treated me any differently because I was crazy——was I fucking hate the Golden Rule.

I guess I should probably back up a bit. Or a lot.

( TW: verbal arguments, mentions of past abuse [not explicit] )

even with my eyes shut tight, i still see it coming now (i think i'm breaking down again)

A mist descends, portent of heavy fog soon to come. I pretend it's not there, until the evidence piles up.

I have sent 2 IM messages today, Was I starting conversations with people? No, they were all away, not answering their messages. It wasn't accidental; I did it on purpose. I knew I was talking to someone who wasn't going to talk back.

They don't want to talk to you anyway, whispers through my head, the voice of the fog rolling in. It sounds wrong, but maybe true, and I don't know anymore. You know, just like your old friend and your ex don't want to talk to you anymore either. That's not... exactly what happened, I think, but it's weak, ineffectual. Anyway, it sounds right, doesn't it?

I emailed gamesiplay and said nothing of importance. I'm not even sure why I did it, since I meant to give her details later and just... didn't.

Why even bother? It doesn't matter.

I sent my sister a text message earlier, desperately wanting to get out of the house, but I didn't say any of that. When she finally responded, I turned the conversation back on her with platitudes; I never said anything was wrong or that I wanted to come over, even though that was my initial reason.

You're burdening her, the blankness in my mind seems to say, over and over, until I need to agree or ... what, what is there instead of agreement? I'm so tired.

I haven't spoken to my boyfriend in 24 hours— except to tell him, yesterday, that I wouldn't be there this weekend. "I need time to decompress," I told him. Maybe it's even true, in some alternate reality. I thought it was true at the time.

You could break up with him, and it sounds almost hopeful, like this amazing, wonderful man who truly cares about people would be so much better off without me. I can't imagine a life where I don't grieviously harm others, and I'm not sure whether that's true or whether it's right or what. What do I know, anyway? Nothing, says the fog, almost seductively, purring. This is what you do best, you know. Hurt people. Just think about all your mistakes.

I could've texted panda, instead of my sister (who works nights and who I knew would be asleep) and I'm pretty sure she would've told me to come over. I don't want to do that. I don't want to reply to her latest email; I can't help her with her problems.

I'm not sure if it's real or if my thinking's distorted. I've very nearly reached the point where it doesn't matter, because this feels so real, so it has to be real, doesn't it? Isn't it? Yes, always yes, this is real, this is reality, everyone hates you, god, why do I even try?

I feel, on a level that's deeper than knowing, that I can't help anyone, that being around someone else is just going to bring them down, that I'm worthless, hopeless, annoying, irritating, upsetting, a waste of time and energy, a waste of space, a waste of oxygen.

I've cried four or five times in the last two days. It doesn't last long, not like the tsunami of tears that I know might very well overflow soon. Five minutes or so and I think "god, I need to stock up on tissues, it's only going to get worse."

Worse. Yes, worse. Always worse. No hope.

I listen to music that echoes my mental state. I have a playlist—it's filled with songs like "Breaking Down", "Psychopharmacology", "You're a Disaster", "Something Is Not Right with Me", "The Drugs Don't Work", and finally, "Simple Joys" and "Blake". Don't be fooled by the relatively innocuous titles of the last two; more than any others (aside from "Breaking Down" and "What the Water Gave Me") they're the songs that make me cry, because I understand them so acutely.

At least I'm not listening to Elliot Smith, yet. That's something, I suppose, but——really, would that be so bad? And now I can't tell my own thoughts from the way this heavy fog wants me to think; it's all mixed up and I can't see any way out.

I have impulses to do self-destructive things I haven't done for years, and they feel right, necessary.

Would it be so bad? Think of how much better you'd feel. No one has to know. It's completely fine. You'd be so much calmer, really.

I don't listen to music like this because I want to feel worse. I don't avoid people because I hate being cheered up. I don't sit here, all the lights off, IM turned off, my door locked, because I want to be alone, but ... it just seems safer, it seems better, it seems right.

I just don't know what else to do, because I know exactly what this fog is, and I'm fucking terrified.