The reason why I choose to write on here instead of an actual diary or private word document is because even though no one reads this, someone could read this.
It's the closest I can get to actually reaching out to someone. I tell my feelings to this white text box and pretend that someone on the other side hears me and understands.
It's the little lies like this that keep us going.
And people do stop by this blog occasionally, just to see how my year has been going. But those people are strangers (and apparently Canadian) so it is as if I am still talking to myself.
Today is a bad day. Everything is broken. My body, my mind, my cell phone charger, everything is broken.
I want to hurt myself (or worse) but I am too tired. If my body wasn't in so much pain, I could sleep for eternity.
Mostly, I think I am just lonely.
Today in therapy, we created a "safe place" for me to go in my mind. My safe place is a giant room full of leather bond books. There are giant windows along the left side of the room, draped in this kind of red curtain. As the sun shines through, the whole room is enveloped in this soft red glow. I can hear the ocean from the window, I can smell the hardwood that makes up the floors and the wall. It is a beautiful and perfect place.
But even when I "was there" today during the session I was still overcome with sadness. Perhaps even more so than usual. I felt that if I can't be happy in such a perfect place, then I probably can't be happy anywhere. It's because even there I was isolated.
Even in my imagination, I am alone.
I kept thinking about Nina. About how she has disappeared. How I can see her house from my window, but yet she is unreachable. How if she were to call or text me tonight after more than a week of unexplained absence, I would still be elated. But she is probably not going to call.
These thoughts pulled me out of my "safe place." My therapist tried to guide me back in, but to no avail. This time my room full of books was just a ruin. The windows broken, the walls stained, the books burned or torn up.
The therapy will surely help eventually. But now, it just feels like she is an emotional dentist and in drilling down to remove the decay has just exposed a raw nerve.
I am too sensitive. I can't take it. But I will.
I just wish that tonight somewhere out there someone would think of me as they lay there head down on their pillow to sleep.
But I know I am near no one's thoughts.
I am not needed by anyone.
Maybe someday.
10:12 p.m. - 2014-06-02
Recent entries:
Awake in My Tiny Cage - 2014-11-03
God. - 2014-10-27
I remember me. - 2014-10-17
The Paper - 2014-10-13
A Post About Not Doing Anything - 2014-10-12
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