Breakable

by rheeb

A part of me feels like I’m losing it.  I miss writing, and I just got the epiphany that I write because I feel like no one listens to me.  It’s a glorified way of me talking to myself.

Lately, I have been debating whether or not to see a therapist.  I have been in a lot of physical pain, and I’m pretty certain that it’s not for physical reasons.  The whole thing about it is that I feel like no one can help me.  I feel almost hopeless in terms of whether or not a psychologist will be knowledgeable enough to help me move forward in my life.

And I feel so alone.  I don’t feel like I can even talk to anyone about my loneliness without getting some kind of recommendation as to what I should do to cure it.  I haven’t felt comfortable opening my heart to anyone, and it seems like when I do, I am met with an unfavorable reaction.

My back has been hurting lately to the point where I literally feel like it’s going to break.  Like, seriously break in half…as though my bones are as weak as glass.  All my days feel the same.  I feel directionless.  One thing I have been doing, though, is writing down my dreams.  They have been so odd this entire month, so I wake up and write them down, because I feel like I’ll get the answers later.

I feel trapped.  No plan of action feels attainable.

I had a moment earlier today where I made a choice to stop speaking except to myself, my dog, and God.  I don’t feel like whatever I’d say would be worth saying to anyone else.  I feel like no one cares.  I did decide to respond to questions though, because I’m not an asshole.

The other day, I cried so hard that I didn’t think I was ever going to stop.  I’m so serious, too.  Actually, it was two days.  The first day, I wailed while apologizing to God for being so fat.  I don’t know why I did this, but I just couldn’t stop saying how sorry I was.  I felt it was necessary.  The second day, I was crying so hard that I just happened to walk past a mirror during the process, and I scared the shit out of myself.  I had never seen myself that way.

I’m afraid of time–so much so that entertaining the thought of death seems easier.  If I were a car, I feel like I’m in the emergency lane during a huge winter storm with a dead battery and no cell phone.  Yes, I feel like that car.

I drove past Fundie Academy the other day and saw that the stained glass burst out of the building during one of the recent storms.  There is a blue tarp covering the whole thing now, which is great.  I also saw the steeple mangled and laying in front of it.  Such a metaphor.  And, in addition to that, those cheap bastards have “Jesus is Ord” written on the marquee.  Yes, you read that right–“Ord.”  Guess they couldn’t afford the “L.”

I don’t know what to do.  I mean, seriously.  I don’t have a clue.

Blogging to me is like being in a cave, digging in my pocket to find a match, and then striking it on the wall near me.  Thank God, I can see with a little more clarity right now.  I mean that, too.  It’s still dark in here, though.

It’s possible that I could be depressed, but how can any doctor help that?  How could any pill help that?

Song of the Day: Private Dancer by Tina Turner; Hold Me by Fleetwood Mac

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