Woke up crying this morning. Sleeping off and on. Bad headache. No appetite again. And trying not to think about him. He's a sore foot I want to gnaw off.
And now I don't want to see the OB. I don't want to worry about appearing healthy or appearing sick. Or how I appear, because how I appear is not an accurate reflection of anything. This illness is a bag of mixed nuts.
"What's the problem?"
I don't even know where to begin.
Try, "Everything's my fault, and nothing's my fault. I want to salvage everything in my life, and I want to destroy it. It means everything and nothing at all."
Today, I notice I've begun to detach myself from other human beings. I don't feel in sync with anything. I don't feel part of the family -- or any family. I don't feel married, in an arrangement of any kind.
It's like I was a piece if a complete puzzle, but I'm not a piece of anything anymore, but maybe instead, that little, useless ball of lint under the couch the wasn't created for any purpose, but rather, formed from various wastes drifting about that eventually clung together to make "me."
What happens to useless lint?
Last night, I fell asleep thinking about what it would be like to run the van off of the road at top speed. I wondered if the airbag would deploy, if I'd think to turn it off first, if it would burst on impact.
I wondered if it would be bloody, if I would be decapitated or clipped in half. Would I be crushed to the flatness of a couple inches. Would I be recognizable.
I've thought of starving myself, slitting my wrists in the tub, in a lake, in the sand on a beach. Of stepping in front of a mack truck. Of overdosing on NyQuil (stupid idea, but of all the things I've thought of, over-sedating is the most attractive).
I read that when depressed people think of suicide, they mainly think about the aspect of it that will bring an end to the pain. For me, I think of self-inflicted justice. An equalization, as death is to all. I think about peace and rest, comfortable nothingness.
Coincidentally, Tom Petty's "Free Fallin'" has been the most recent earworm, going on 48 hours now. But he's got it right, even if he may have meant something entirely different:
"...Gonna free fall, out into nothin',
Gonna leave this world for a while..."
Yes, I want to leave this world for a while. Not suspended in time, but moving through timeless, spaceless air -- feeling the wind blow by me, going nowhere. A complete void of context.
Death is not a void of context. I like to ignore the truth and pretend it is, but I know better. The blasphemy of it is that when I am shriveled up in pain, a large part of me doesn't care about the truth.
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I wish you would decide to disappear into another life, maybe go back to Washington or Korea or the Philippines. I wish you would find a new context, forget me, and never say my name again.
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Don't know how much NyQuil I've had. But I just took some melatonin. Anything to calm my anxiety. No alternatives but to lay awake for a while.
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