Sometimes I wish that I could just gather all my friends up in a big room, keep them close to me and personally make sure nothing happens to them. But reality is that I cannot. No matter how badly I want to keep my friends from harm's way, bad things happen to good people.
I'm sorry if this doesn't make much sense but I'm slightly sleep deprived, tired and refusing to go to bed. Truth is, I haven't been sleeping well having woken up every morning to some kind of a nightmare or two. This morning I fell asleep 4 times only to wake up to something nasty again. 4 nightmares, 4 or 5 good hours of sleep. Then, during the day, I met up with an old friend again.
I know this sounds nasty and egoistical and terrible but I kind of wish I hadn't. Seeing her in such a bad condition hurt me deeply. I just wish she'd listen to her friends rather than what her depression is telling her. Do what's right rather than what feels good in the moment.
I know it sounds all teenager-ly but I'm in pain right now. I just don't know what to do, I'm not even sure if I will publish this long, rambling speech. But I can't stop. Can't stop writing because I'm afraid of what I'll do to myself if my hands aren't kept busy otherwise. The sunny days haven't quite kept the darkness at bay.
I don't know. I don't know what I'm thinking anymore or why seeing her affected me like this.
A part of me just wants to spill my guts on this stupid blog but I don't think I'm quite ready to put it all out there yet.
Sister is coming home the day after tomorrow, I just have to stand strong until that.
Again, I apologise for the post. So far I have managed to keep mostly off the blog if I feel like this (i.e. winter) but I do recall now a similar post from last summer or perhaps the one before that. I don't know. Maybe it's a thing. But I'm still not ready to try sleeping...
In a strange way, I had fallen in love with my depression. I loved it because it was all I had. I thought depression was the part of my character that made me worthwhile. I thought so little of myself, felt that I had such scant offerings to give to the world, that the one thing that justified my existence at all was my pain.~Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation (1994).