I don't really know what to write about at this particular moment, all I know is that I must write because it's 4 in the morning and I feel like I am colliding around in my head, tossing papers, trying to find the perfect topic to write about, yes! Something that will make me express myself and inspire others to think and wonder about this special topic themselves and I can already feel this turning into a ramble-type post because I have taken Percocet all night long and am in this hazy sort of state, a yawn opening up in my chest and swallowing the world around me. In my head, I see either my mind or my chest opening up and swallowing and stretching every thing inside of me like a black hole, colors, shapes, music, sound...all echoing and being stretched forever and I hear Pink Floyd (of course) while this is happening...in fact the only reason I said that is because I have a play list on shuffle and Pink Floyd just so happens to be on said play list and is playing AT THIS INSTANT.
Hearing this is my head, I have lost my marbles. Yes, I am mad as a hatter, chattering about, randomly spurting nonsense into a nonsensical world called the internet and it's twisted individuals. Sometimes I'm convinced the most horrid people dwell on the internet. Yes, I am on the internet and you are too if you are reading this. Not trying to call you or myself horrid, but when I say this, I can only imagine that you know what I am talking about. Then again I shouldn't judge; matter of opinion. Ahem.
Fuck. You know what I hope to be? Fucking superwoman. Maybe I have low self-esteem or that I'm not working through my issues. What I want is to become the woman who can do it all. The kind of person who can pay her bills on her own, do the laundry, keep the house spotless, make marvelous dinners, and go to school full-time, and do research, and write, and keep up with family and friends, and have the perfect relationship and keep my husband happy and wanting only me, and not take so many painkillers in order to be blissfully stupid-happy, and be the life of the party, and, and, and.
I want to be superwoman, and the fact that I'm not makes me hate myself and constantly wonder why I'm such a waste. Such a waste of space on this planet, a waste of air and resources.
But everyone forgets and claim I am better because I have managed to stay out of the hospital. No ther-rapists spouting their diag-nonsense at them letting them know I am a very, very sick girl. If I'm not chucking shit around the house, doing drugs, taking off in the middle of the night, slicing my arms up like a Virginia ham, I must be better, right?