April 18

April 18
Sylvia Plath

the slime of all my yesterdays
rots in the hollow of my skull

and if my stomach would contract
because of some explicable phenomenon
such as pregnancy or constipation

I would not remember you

or that because of sleep
infrequent as a moon of greencheese
that because of food
nourishing as violet leaves
that because of these

and in a few fatal yards of grass
in a few spaces of sky and treetops

a future was lost yesterday
as easily and irretrievably
as a tennis ball at twilight

I officially have no guy friend any more. It is a relief. I sent him a birthday email, to which he replied. We have nothing else to say to one another. At last, I have closure.

Virginia Woolf added stones to the pockets in her dress or apron and drowned herself in the lake nearby her house.

Sylvia Plath gassed herself in her oven.

Quite overly dramatic. Yet, they must have been really, truly bereft of hope to muster such courage to take the slow, painful way out.

I don't have the courage to live or die. So I remain in this painful, static state of being. Everything that had to be said about this disease has already been said. Others are helping out the poor and the oppressed. I can't really see myself in a 9 to 5 job situation, working with others. Editing is way out of my league.

And Travis was run over by a red Double Decker bus at the tender age of five. Or shall I name him Tristan? I like both those names.

I thought I was striving for perfection, for the Truth. en cherchant la vérité. I give up; it's all a delusion. The despair I have felt all my life; the pessimism. It was the only truly intuitive thing I have constantly had proof after proof of it being 'the truth'. No good can come out of my being here. I have no chemin, no aim in life. I am already dead and withered up all inside. I can't even draw my mandalas anymore.

I disassociate myself from these adjectives:
intelligent, kind, caring, empathetic, independent, authentic, germinating.

Food prices have risen dramatically here. Perhaps if I train my stomach to eat at least one spoonful less each day, I could starve myself to death.

My d.o.s. was supposed to be the 16th of April. My bird day. It never happened, because I still had some remnants of hope. I think I was just greedy for cake. And birthday wishes, which I received but few. Umair forgot. That made it heck easy to cut him out, like in a photograph.

I have been ripping up a lots of photos these past weeks.

I have gotten rid of most of my clothes. I only need two pairs of pjs to live in now.

The books can be sold off afterwards.

I started my headbanging again today; I made sure the metal steel of my watch made contact with my skull. It hurt like hell. Just four more tablets of escitalopram to endure and that's it - cold turkey. I prefer my cold, lifeless despair to this destructive rage I am experiencing now.

I am not buying any more medications; I am not going to any more stupid arse shrinks; and counselling hasn't really helped me overcome. Because a lot is expected from me. I don't share those expectations. I have really low expectations for myself.

I agree, I've been handed things easily. I've never had to work a day in my life to pay for books or clothes or food. I am stubborn and selfish and ego-centric. I am all of those things.

So, let's see how far I can survive like this before Mother Dearest gives up on me completely - I am really wearing out her poor, gentle little soul. Father Seigneur is off to Zanzibar for three weeks and gives a crap about me.

But why would anyone? I don't give a rat's arse about myself, right?