I Chew All The Skin From My Hands

Whenever I think about money, I automatically become depressed, often even suicidal. I can’t pay for this phone, let alone the bill. Car repair payments.

It’s a piece of shit.

I can’t afford my school’s tuition, I can’t even afford to buy books for a class I need to take. It’s all just so stress-inducing.

I wrote a little today, which was good.

I have a lot of work to do in the next week and a half, but I’ll get it done. I’ll get it done.

“You always push through,” everyone says, and they’re right, although sometimes I wish they weren’t. I am strong, but I’m not as strong as I need to be.

Goals are merely floating specks of dust at this point. Goals are fucking vapor. Goals do not feed me anymore.

I had to leave class for a few minutes to let tears stream freely down my face as I sat on the toilet–how’s that for a good morning? My advisor is useless, my brain is an empty can of sardines.

My only wish for today is to sit in the sun and smoke cigarette after cigarette and talk to someone, about anything, about nothing.

This Is (Not).

It’s not what I want.

This depression is numbness, total indifference. I can’t feel enough to even write a half-assed poem or work on a draft of a story. It takes me weeks to answer emails. Every decision feels like it was made in a fog of carelessness. I can’t wake up in the morning. I really can’t. I now require eleven hours of sleep. It never used to be like this. And when I do get up, my eyes are slowly closing in my 9:30am class, but I can’t even have caffeine to alleviate the struggle, so I just get up and go to the restroom and sit and go back and try to keep my head up. I’m late with all my schoolwork and so little effort goes into it.

I thought I was doing better for a while, but now I realize I was just becoming numb.

My answer to most things is something like, “I don’t care,” or “It doesn’t matter.”

I just need to keep pushing through

but that’s all I ever do anyway.