The Lewd Angel

I can do the splits in my mind

I cancelled a doctors appointment a couple weeks ago because I thought I had to work. They told me they would call to reschedule because after three times of telling them I wanted to reschedule and then being put on hold and then somoene new picking up the phone and saying how can I help you? I was like how about you can NOT put me on hold until someone else comes to the phone. They never called me back about rescheduling and now I just called to make an appointment but they can't take me until after my pill has already run out. It makes me want to scream at them that if I kill myself that it will be their fault for being a bunch of lazy fucking ghetto medical secretaries.



I realize that, that is kind of distorted and fucked. Often I feel fine but then I'll find myself in bed choking myself and I'll stop but I can't explain when I'm fine how tempting it is. Am I writing this for attention? I don't know. I'm not making it up tho. I can't explain what has made me want to compulsivly write all this shit down. I don't think it's cool. I am 25. I know it's not normal. I know that I alienate people by writing it down. Nobody wants to read it and just casually mention "so....you choked yourself for a bit today? do anything else interesting?" I am crazy but not crazy enough to think that writing about suicide on the internet is a good way to make friends.



The writing and the pictures are kind of a double edged sword. Since I have started this I think of suicide much less. That might be coincidence since I started pills at the same time but I really don't think so. Documenting my life in detail has somehow renewed my interest in living it. At the same time, it has probably pushed people farther away from me and has put me even further into this tiny world where only I exist. I make jokes out loud but I know that sometimes when people laugh that we are maybe not laughing at the same thing. I can't understand people.




I can feel my mind slipping away. I don't know what's real and what's not. I think the hardest thing about a mental illness is being self aware of it to a degree. My friend Morgan who was schizophrenic once asked me if I thought I would ever be married and I told him I don't know. I asked him the same question and he said no, although he said he would like to be married. He knew that it was not something he could have in life because of his illness. It made me very sad because although his illness took away his ability to be in a normal relationship, it in no way took away his capacity for love. One day Morgan asked me to kiss him and I did. I think he might have told his guy friends afterwards that I gave him a blow job. Maybe he thought I did...I really have no idea. I didn't regret it though, after he died I was glad that he had kissed atleast one girl who really loved him. I know he loved me back.

|

Thursday, December 29, 2005