Depression: 10, 4, 5, 8, 10. Yeah it's one of those days.
I'm trying to write this in a dizzy haze so deal with it. I'm fighting the Klonopin. I'm fighting bipolar. I'm fighting life. I'm fighting my GPA. I'm fighting heartache. I'm fighting confusion. I'm fighting this shitty internet in this shitty weather. I'm fighting the negative thoughts running through my head as if they own the fucking place. I'm just fighting.
I still wake up finding myself yearning for the one who rejects me, keeps me as a friend. I try to tell myself it's because he's fucking stupid and can't see the real woman in front of him. That works for about 3 seconds before I start thinking that he's too smart to get caught up with an emotional psychopath like myself. Yet I still can't convince myself not to call, not to e-mail because in my head I'm certain he'll just be happy I'm not around and not bother calling or writing... because I'm honestly worthless to him. It's just as well, he's a perpetual optimist, I'm a pessimist, and we both call ourselves realists.
I still wander through the house looking for Mom. Smelling the air for her cigarette smoke. Listening for her coughing laugh. Longing for someone to talk to that was as smart, caring, forgiving and accepting as her. I've failed at that too. Apparently the one who rejects me isn't a good or willing replacement.
I can never get him to understand that yes, I have other friends to talk to, but they don't have the same interests, I can't talk to them for hours about everything from current events to history to the correlation between the two. He will never understand what it really means to be one of the few humans trusted enough to be allowed deep enough inside my keep that he is just free to roam around and apparently fuck all the females there.
I still wake up and remind myself of the failure I am. How I'll never get my GPA up enough to get into grad school. How I'll never hold a job because of my cycling. College seems more and more a distant dream and a waste of time every time I look at my GPA. It never matters how well I do in a semester, the fucking thing seems to go down.
The only thing I'm finding any joy in is listening to Christopher Walken recite Poe's The Raven, cheesy sound effects and all.
I have many poems, stories, novels, songs, mostly angsty and tortured, slamming themselves into my skull but they cannot cross the plane through fingers, pen or lips. Emotions, fuck emotions. They're literally driving me insane... Quoth the raven, Nevermore. As I'm sure you've been able to tell, a few shitty poems have been able to come out and play. But those are shitty ones.
They are not up to my standards of poetry. Percy Shelley is up to my standards: A Lament. When the Lamp is Shattered. Mask of Anarchy. All show this wordsmith to be the epic wordsmith he was. May we all drink to his scribbles being late enough in history to be kept alive for our generation.