Like an infinite loop of a joke that gets funnier the more it is laughed at, and attention is spent on it at the expense of everything else in the universe. Like a cascade, waterfall-esque, of typing that lets you depart from your own self-dislike for a while (knowing this is the problem, fighting the self-consciousness of this as the problem, disliking yourself for discussing this as a problem), like not being anything at all.
I am relaxing into myself.
I cut myself with a house key last week. It took a long and careful sawing. Flecks of white skin would flake off of me. I was watching with earnest attention. I was absorbed in the feeling of it. It felt like magic.
I was doing cocaine on a CD case. My dad came into my room. I dove over top of it and pretended I was caught masturbating.
A girl I liked didn’t like me. I twisted a Fresca can in half and cut my legs with the half-cans. They were sharper and faster than the house keys. I discussed it with a friend who had a dedicated razor for the task. I liked the patience the house key required.
I am inside of a bubble. I am not leaving the bubble. I am staying, muted, transfixed inside the bubble. I am graduating senior year of high school in three weeks. My hand is broken. I am high on Dilaudid.
I was sunbathing on my parents’ back porch when I fell asleep. I tried smoking a cigar and it felt and tasted disgusting. I woke up afraid I had sunburned myself incurably.
I had Vivarin caffeine pills. I thought I could try crushing and snorting them. I wanted to crush and snort a lot of things. I told my dad and he looked said that I wanted to crush and snort things. I tried with the Vivarin and it made me feel very sick, and then very stupid. Very sick and stupid, both obvious feelings to feel in the situation.
All my therapist does is talk. I don’t talk much. I say a few things and he says something nice to me about myself and then talks about himself for a long time, things like how he likes eating ice cream or it’s important to shower first thing in the morning.
I remember walking into the office and feeling my jeans rubbing against my thighs, and it hurt. I managed to persuade the psychiatrist to prescribe me Percocet 10’s because of some riff-raff involving the hospital. I don’t know how he was so dumb. My mom was good at persuading them.
I remember being in the passenger’s side of my dad’s truck the other day. I was in the psychiatrist’s parking lot. I was withdrawing from Dilaudid, I think. We were listening to “Better Together” by Jack Johnson (one of those songs off of that album by Jack Johnson) and I had eaten some gummie Starbust-y things for nausea. I was throwing up outside the door. It was a hot spring day. A lady was walking to the office. I apologized to her. She said something like, “…” well, I’m not sure enough to quote, but it was something that conveyed the idea that I was there to be healed and helped and didn’t need to apologize to anyone.
I want to go home. I’ll be graduating high school in no time at all. I took off the neck brace that covered my neck around February. Maybe more girls will like me now. My hand is in a cast now.
I started smoking cigarettes. I want to party more with Louis’ college friends. I want to spend more time with Louis’. He’s a better person than I am and if I spend time with him I will become a better version of myself because he will teach me how to be a better person.
He knows he is teaching me how to be better than I am. This can only help. We can laugh together about it. He wouldn’t hurt me, or anything, you know…
I want to punch more walls. I hope I punch more walls in the future. I don’t know what the future holds in store for me but I hope it’s something great. I really do believe I’m destined for greatness.