Dr. Jekell & Mr. Hyde

I honestly don’t know what the hell is wrong with me.  Am I a product of environment, or was I made this way in same way that the color of my eyes was decided.  It doesn’t really matter.  I haven’t felt like writing whether for public or private.  I began writing again because I thought it might help me work some things through.  As a teenager, I wrote and wrote and wrote.  It was all for nothing because that stack of notebooks is rotting somewhere in a dump under a pile of bacteria and electronics’ chemicals.

A few weeks ago, I found myself on my knees on the cold kitchen floor, sobbing like a person who had just learned their best friend was horribly murdered.  It was nothing like that, of course.  I don’t remember what, if anything set me off that time.  Sometimes I just wake up like that.  Sometimes, a small thing will upset me.

I’ve began o revert to my old ways of bruising myself and when desperate to get away from world, taking something that will help me sleep.  I haven’t mutilated myself as I did before.  It hasn’t come to that.  At this stage, as insecure and as fat and ugly as I feel, I don’t think I cut hurt myself in a permanent manner.  A bruise heals quickly and he’d never notice it since it’s still chilly and I’m still in sweat pants around the house. 

All I have to do is keep the lights dim.  We’ve been there twice and he never noticed it.  Not that I’d want him too.  I already told him I wanted to start looking into anti-depressants again.  This was met with little discussion or reaction.  I’m not sure what he thinks about it.  He didn’t really say anything about it.

“If that’s what you’d like to do.”

So, I don’t know if this idea upsets him, makes him nervous, or glad to hear.  I don’t know.  That’s men, really.  They don’t communicate.

I tried to be OK yesterday.  I really worked hard to push it all out of my mind.  Today I just couldn’t.  I simply woke up feeling funky.  Really, a just-don’t-care kind of mood.  Nausea hit again and my stomach makes a rumbling that reminds me of that Simpson’s episode where Homer get hit in the gut with a cannon ball repeatedly.

I want to join a gym and see a dermatologist.  I want to get my teeth white and straight.  I want a (good) boob job.

Will these things make me happy?  If I had them, I mean.  I doubt it.  Even if I had all of that, the killer body, perfect skin…I’d probably look into the mirror and see a fat, ugly loser staring right back at me.

What was I thinking starting a blog?  I thought I could keep it light and airy.  Who wants to sit there and read this crap anyway?  I wouldn’t.

I hate this.  I wish there was someone I could talk to--anyone--that would understand this and fix me.  I cannot talk to him.  No, that’s ridiculous.  To spare him, I told him I wasn’t comfortable talking to him about this when I brought up the anti-depressant search.  He wouldn’t understand.  Never has.  I’ve spent a total combined time of five or six hours reading up on different drugs and user reviews.  I’ve wrote down a few things.  Even one that was prescribed to me long ago but I never took it.  I don’t know yet. 

Where am I going to get the money to pay for a visit to the dermatologist?  Doctors visits and co-pays and drugs….I really hate staying after work.  I should be using that time to go for a run or something, maybe try to shed the fat off this body.  Maybe it won’t make me “happy” but it might perhaps make me a bit more secure with myself.

I really don’t know.  I just don’t know.