Sinking

Sir says, “Write about it.”

He doesn’t understand.

Everything is too hard.

He gave me all my pills this morning and waited an hour, and now he says to write about it. And if I do what he says I’m just proving that I can and when I say I can’t he won’t believe me next time because… I can. I can do everything. Nothing matters because I’m fine. I can write. I can take my pills. I can eat when he tells me to. I can go to work. I can do my job.

I can do everything.

So nothing matters.

I can write. I’m writing.

Sir wants me to tell my doctor things.

I’m sure I can… I can do everything else.

I can… tell my doctor things. I can… tell my therapist things.

I can do anything.

Except die. I can’t mange to fucking die. And it’s not even me, other people have tried to make me die and they couldn’t even do it. I’ve almost resigned myself to waiting, because, eventually… in enough years… it will happen…

But I can’t… or can… imagine living through the pain for however many more years I have to wait.

I can’t… express… in any way meaningful to anyone… how much I hurt. How hard everything is. No one can understand, because… I can. I can do things. I can live.

I just don’t want to. But who cares? People don’t want to do things all the time, they still do them.

So I do them.

I got up this morning.

I took a shower.

I ate the food D set in front of me.

I am writing the blog post Sir told me to write.

I’m fully functional and capable.

So nobody should even care.

I do it all to myself anyway. I distort things. I imagine things that aren’t true. I believe things that aren’t true. I just should stop.

Then I’d be fine.

It’s all under my control.

I just need to make better choices.

Just stop thinking stupid things and make better choices and then I’ll be fine on the inside, too.

I think too many people are trying to help me because I act so pathetic. And maybe if they all just walked away from me I’d suck it up and act like an adult.

I made a stupid mistake, I told Sir my plan and now he knows so now he’s suspicious of me all the time. He threatened to tell my doctors, but he hasn’t, yet, unless he did it without telling me, but he’s so about integrity and transparency and boundaries that I’m pretty sure I’m safe from him actually doing anything I don’t want him to do.

Which is hilarious.

How far have we fallen from who we are.

Now I control him.

I control everything.

And anything I don’t like, is my choice to change.

So… if I’m unhappy, it’s my fault.

No one else can help me.

I have all the medications I should need. I have all the education I should need. All that is left is for me to just grow the fuck up and act like a fucking adult for once in my life.

See? I can write.

I wrote.