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Post by Arden Patricks on May 15, 2009 18:03:04 GMT
I really do not understand myself at all. I don’t know how my own head works, or why the hell I want to tear it off. I’ve never understood why I want to destroy myself.
But knowing I don’t get it doesn’t exactly stop me from feeling it. Never has. Even when it comes and goes, to different degrees and in different combinations, sometimes after months of being fine… it still never really goes away. I just find new means of self-destruction.
The simplest, most satisfying, and least likely to hurt others is self-harm… but I won’t even do that. Not after all the trouble it caused last time.
But I hate days like today, spent sitting in the dark with my eyes closed, wanting more than anything to slice my own arm open but refusing to let myself do it because I know that if I do I’ll just want to do more. It’ll hurt, and I won’t want to deal with that, so then I’ll just hurt myself further until it’s finally… gone, and over, and I’ve won. Or lost.
Now, there’s a thought to contemplate. When you’re fighting with yourself, who the hell wins?
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Post by Logan Andrews on May 15, 2009 22:05:13 GMT
It's a very curious thing...having to deal with killing someone. It really is. It never pushes you quite the same way twice, it's always ever so slightly different with varying degrees of satisfaction or apathy, all mixed in with the occasional and easily ignored small tugs of guilt or thoughtfulness. Murder of a stranger is different to murder or someone you know...and homicide with reason is much different to homicide without...
But I suppose the only conclusion I can draw from all this is that I really just don't know what's going to come next if I'm going to insist on being a sadist and which way my head's going to go when I'm going to keep fucking...changing my mind on whether I'm human or not.
Thankfully, that's not so much an issue after the murder of the not-dead boyfriend. Whenever that bothersome little nausea pops up, I think of the whole thing as 'course correcting' before that little sickness can turn into something that is actually guilt. Really, it was course correcting. He should have been dead and it's not right to cheat death, it's not, so I just set things right again and I'm not going to crucify myself over that.
Except I don't really need to crucify myself. I keep waiting for it to come, the remorse or something like it or one of those helpful little comments from the self-loathing conscience that shows up without invitation every now and again. But...it's just not coming. It's just a total absence of regret and the distinct sort of feeling that my selectively aloof conscience has turned a blind eye.
Which sort of raises the suggestion that I really don't know what it is to be human. I wouldn't think that feeling human was something that was optional, but there's really nothing. Even the satisfaction has worn off now so that I'm no longer proud or pleased...there's just nothing about that. It's just something I did now, already faded into the background and I don't give a fuck. So maybe I just really wanted it for a while, full humanity and all and I fooled myself into thinking it was real...that it was just a switch I could flick on and that'd be that. Maybe I was wrong about that, if I can take a life without any inkling of remorse.
Or maybe I'm just confused and mixed up and my whole psyche has a tendency to shift to polar opposites with very little prior notice, but that's hardly relevant.
What is relevant is that it's been days, perhaps over a week by now, since Arden and I spoke regarding the not-dead boyfriend and I guess she really takes me at my word that it was nothing to do with me. Surprisingly little guilt about that too, after the initial difficulty with lying right to her face. I'm over that as well, don't care. Don't care about anything once again, which is lovely but probably won't last.
I'm probably not in the right frame of mind to even come home right this second, overly apathetic as I am, but it's too late because I'm already here, already letting myself in and I can hardly just turn around and go back out again.
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Post by Arden Patricks on May 15, 2009 22:22:03 GMT
Oh, damn.
I close my eyes tighter when I hear the door open, forehead resting on my knees. I do hope that's not Logan, though I know that it's highly unlikely to be anyone else. I just don't want to lash out at him, or let him see me like this, or... well, I don't want to exist, at the moment, but having someone else here to see me only helps increase the self-disgust.
So the only thing I can think of is to get up off the couch and head to the kitchen as soon as he comes in, not saying a word. It isn't very much, but it's something.
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