Jun. 25th, 2017

quirkytizzy: (Default)
I do not like Wellbutrin. I don't like....not feeling. Anything. Anything at all. I'm numb.

All of my life I have envied people who have felt numb. I've never been numb. I didn't think it was possible. Not for me. Not for someone whose emotions lived so close to the surface that they spilled over at the slightest tip.

Now I realize that all I had been missing was the right drug - and now I don't care about anything. I don't care about getting help. I don't care about getting sick. I don't care about connecting to the people or pets in my life.

Why should I? What's the point? It's all made of soundproof plastic anyways. I sleep because...why not? What's the point otherwise? This is not depression. This is simply not caring, or feeling a need to care.

I think I'd rather feel suicidal than this. I know I would rather feel suicidal than this.

Reassuringly enough, I am at least still creepy and morbid. I've been craving to watch REPO: THE GENETIC OPERA. Of course, Netflix and Amazon don't have it, but youtube has the music. Call it creepy, but I'm shipping Shilo and Graverobber SO HARD right now.

Going to readjust the Wellbutrin. Gotta get back to me. I mean, hell, do I find this man sexy?




Fuck yes. If I've still got that, then surely I can get back to the rest of it, right?
quirkytizzy: (Default)
There are two ways through this and only two ways through this. One is to bleed. That is not an option. The other is to find a way to bleed internally. Fight my way to to a place where the words and obsession, passion and blood run wild, no matter how deep I may have to go.

I don't care how cliche that sounds. Call me a starving, bleeding artist. I don't care. Cliche exists because it's true.

But it requires so much effort now. I'd have to work so hard - and I'm tired.

But I have to dig there. Pick-ax's if necessary. Hatchets, scalpels, all applied to the heart, to the soul, to dig out something that feels.

It's healthier to do this with words than with skin. I can at least be comforted in that I know this.

This cannot happen tonight. The hours are too late as is. But soon. I can't stand feeling this dead inside. It's not me. It's not me and I can't not be me. I can't not write. I can't not brim over with feelings that rage along every ragged breath. I must get there.

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