One week until I turn twenty years old, like the title says.
I wonder if I just say that more times, it’ll somehow sound and feel real. I doubt it. It doesn’t feel real, nor do I really have any particular feelings about it. You’d think that I would; I’m losing the -teen suffix, moving into the world of numbers referencing my age that begin with a whole new digit, commemorating two decades or celebrating a fifth of a century on the face of this earth… whatever you prefer. That stuff just makes me feel old.
Let’s be honest. No stupid fabrications. I know I’ll be in treatment of some kind, whether it be in this place that’s increasingly reminding me of Satan’s domain (and no, not because of the temperature; it’s actually always freezing in here) or in a hospital. I won’t be at home or with friends or family. And to be completely honest, I don’t particularly care to be.
Right now I have no motivation to beat this disorder. And it has every motivation to kick the living daylights out of me, which it’s doing quite convincingly. I just don’t have any fight left in me.
I’m also incredibly anxious today because I’m apparently going to have a team meeting at an unspecified time to sort of discuss the absolutely unknown. Wow. Okay. Basically, all that I know is that my team will supposedly all gather with me present to seriously, and with due amounts of hand folding and hasty scribbling with pens, talk about stuff. I’m going to try and be as honest with them as possible. I’m sick and tired of feeling like my life is being controlled by someone else. Which is wholly ironic, I realize (thanks, Alanis). I’m also sick and tired of my train of thought running off the tracks, turning invisible, and then blowing up into a million tiny pieces like it just did.
Ever feel like your body is present; like it’s acting and reacting, but nobody’s home? It’s a step further than empty, but it also has distinctly negative connotations, so it’s kind of simultaneously like depression. Think Linkin Park’s angsty “Numb” mixed with the full-body sensation of ingesting a million Cepacol cough drops. That’s what I’m experiencing right now besides the full blown anxiety. Occasionally, big angry red letters sprawl across my field of vision to reprimand and chastise me for eating anything. Then they yell at me because I’m probably triggering everyone else with how terribly I’m doing. And then it’s just that blank, yet chaotic, feeling again. Maybe later today I’ll try writing some more or working on the art pieces for everybody who asked. Maybe.
Much love ❤