May, 1995

Saw Jackson on Thursday night. It was hopeless. I didn’t even feel angry, just unbearably awful, but not in a hit myself kind of way, more like I was going to throw up. I just wanted to get it over with and get out of there without letting him get to me.

He started talking about what was going on with him the past week, work wise and readings and all the things he was thinking. Like we had not stood in this very room screaming at each other and bashing our heads into walls, like we didn’t not speak for almost two weeks.

I didn’t even sit down, I leaned on the counter. Cut to the point, what do you want from me.

He was taken aback. There he was in his contemplative mode, speaking thoughtfully and seriously, and I was rushing him. He said he needed me to know that he cares for me, but he can’t handle my behavior. I said I noticed. I can’t handle his either.

But I’m worse than him, apparently. He said it was unfair of me to talk about killing myself, even though I thought you were supposed to be able to be honest and turn to the people you love in times of despair. It’s not my fault that I’m incredibly depressed. I’m trying to get help. I’ve been trying to get help this entire time. He’s so worried about my depression but everything he does makes it so much worse. Maybe I would be less suicidal if he weren’t so fucking mean to me.

I didn’t say that. I was just like, okay, got it. I could see he was waiting for me to argue with him or get upset. I was extremely upset but I was very focused and I was able to keep it together by imagining his head bursting into flames. I stared at him intently thinking if I just concentrate hard enough I bet I can make his head explode.

He was discomfited. Why are you looking at me like that? I said, I’m listening to you.

He’s confused and frowning. Well…don’t you want to say something? What a prince, inviting me, a lowly commoner, to share my thoughts with him! I couldn’t help smiling. What are you smiling about, he said. I said you’re funny. He drew back and made a funny face. How am I funny. The way he spit the word out, pfunny, he sounded exactly like Daffy Duck. It was to laugh, as Daffy would say.

I put his keys on the counter and asked for mine. He had his hands on his hips, look of disbelief. I thought you wanted to talk. I did, I said, but I don’t. He gave me the keys and I said thank you and left. Walked right the fuck out and didn’t turn around, even when he said my name, then said it again in a warning tone.

Huge adrenaline rush as I walked home, surge of power. Didn’t cry when I got home but paced around the house for an hour freaking out the cats. Kept sitting in different places and popping back up. Now I feel blank and bereft. Jackson is my ex-boyfriend now.

May, 1995

How about for a change I lie on my bed and feel sorry for myself and cry. Why am I so chronically depressed.

My mother and I are so far apart. I wonder if there’s any way to make things better between us other than for her to completely change and be more like me. Wouldn’t it be cool if she was an older version of me and then she would be a sympathetic understanding kind person who wanted to help people and do good things for them.

Waste of ink. Waste of air. Waste of space. Waste of time. Waste of caring. I’m a waste. I’m incapable of doing anything. Things are no different than if I was smoking.

I hate everyone especially myself. I wish I was dead. I wish it wouldn’t hurt anybody’s feelings if I would die, I wish killing myself wouldn’t just make me a worse person than I already am. No wonder Jackson doesn’t want to be around me.

I wish there was somebody I trusted I could talk to. I don’t want anybody to know how bad off I am. This definitely isn’t normal. I can’t believe I actually feel this way. I know for a fact I’m not faking it for attention because nobody’s around to see it and I’m afraid of letting people know.

God I can’t believe how bad I feel. I feel like I just can’t cope.

I don’t have to be ashamed of feeling this way. I need help and nobody wants to help me. I wish I was dead. I wish I could just sleep all the time. I want to hurt myself. I feel such deep despair and pain. I’m so sad and depressed. I wish somebody would help me. I don’t deserve to be in a relationship with a normal person. When I would look at that beautiful guy in my Yeats class I knew that even if we did meet and he liked me we could never go out because I’m such a freak.

Oh fuck I’m scared now. I just hit myself and it felt really good. I’m so angry at the world. This isn’t helping at all. I should do something. I should get out of the house.

I’m scared. I’m scared of hurting myself. Do I really believe this or do I just want an excuse to smoke? If I want an excuse I must want one pretty bad. Oh I’m in bad shape. Oh I need some help. Oh I’m in bad shape today. Oh I can’t really hang on. Oh I don’t know what to do.

Later I’ll feel pathetic that I ever felt this way. I’ll feel disgusted with myself.

I should just pull it together. I should put on some sweats and go to the park and run. I should put on some music and take some cold medicine to knock me out.

I’m in some bad fucking shape. If only I wrote great poems when I felt like this and not the same awful shit over and over. I need some help. I need some help. I need some help. Somebody.

Well that was great. I just beat the shit out of myself for a while and it actually seems to have helped. I feel calmer and I want to be dead now. I feel awful and I wish I could die. I hate everyone and I think I want to kill myself. I am a terrible person.