haven’t combed my hair in days. sitting on the tile in the bathroom like this is the shit a woman with a husbandchildrenfulltimejob does. writing nonsense and fretting over your skin and distracting yourself from the tearing sensation in your head. where are you going, baby? why do you do this to yourself? “You aren’t Atlas. You act like I’m not even here to help you shoulder this shit.” i’m sorry love. sorry sorry sorry I am this sorry thing. I am Atlas. I have carried my own world for too long to know how to hand anyone else the burden. like I’m going to fucking hand this shit to you, Oh hey baby, here are these monsters. Carry these around for a while so I can have a moment’s peace because i’m too weak to do this on my own. fuck. FUCK.Here I am, asking for help because I AM TOO WEAK to do this on my own anymore and it makes me want to die.What the fuck is the point of me if I can’t handle my own shit?Worthless. Garbage.
Dreamt of hank last night. He was scarily tall. But he was there and he smiled. Like a fucking caricature of himself. But he was alive. Different and the urge to disappear into him waned and my eyes felt huge watching him. Fucking pathetic I guess. I don’t want to be perfect. I don’t want that false utopia. I want to FIX this I want to hold these demons and discover them, see them in the light and understand them so I can love them or put them to bed. I want them to stop eating me alive. Because I’m not the only one who suffers anymore.I’m talking about them here, openly. Them, like I know what they are specifically. But I have acknowledged them to people. “I have monsters. I am haunted. I am not ok. But I don’t plan to stay this way.” They say talking about it makes you strong. Half of me believes talking about it satisfies the morbid curiosity of humans who want to hear what has been killing you. They want pieces of your flesh and I’d just as soon poison them with my toxicity. Discerning and revelatory. Some dissembly required. I’m not ok. But I fucking will be.