Achey and Stolic

these last two days have been hard. A 6 hour drive seemed like days. I could barely stay awake. Seeing old, good friends is torcherous. Small talk is killing me slowly.

I can't think. I am surrounded by my own sloth. I want it to end and I can't think when it will. When will I stop being controlled by tv and media and can finally think for myself with out horrors. I don't know. Nothing has soothed me. I have been given suggestions but nobody knows the horrid things I think about along with the empty nothing that consumes me day after day. I am a different person. I will never be the same person. I feel like death has started to eat me alive and all I can do is sit here and take it. Oh, yes, I can take some fucking presciption pills at 5 bucks a pill. I wish I felt safe in my own skin. I can't talk without complaining. Everytime I open my mouth I feel like the emotion will escape me and blacken the world. this only world I see though this plexiglass protection. Someone is protecting me from the world and the world from me and for a moment it feels safe and for the next day I am angry. But I feel nothing now. I would like to throw up. To be completely empty forever. To be physically empty. to whither away to nothingness. I am already invisible. There is nothing more to see. I am grotesque and unclean and so pitiful. I don't want to be touched. I don't want to touch anything. I am a raw nerve--stay away. Tv is safe and stupid. Music saves me sometimes. Like right now... I Just want to feel safe in my own skin sings dido. She sings about happiness with the world, with one person who can save her... What about the people who have nobody to save them from the world? Romance makes me lonely. Sex makes me sick. I am sick. I have an illness called depression. I almost think I enjoy myself like this. Gentle. Raw. Aching and stolic. It's a chore.

I bit myself until I bruised yesterday. I was so angry. I needed to feel the pain. I needed to feel if I was still alive. Am I? How would I know? I walk around in this cloud of injury. I hate the world and I am running on auto-pilet. I have a rehearsed walk. A rehearsed smile. A rehearsed "i'm fine" I hate small talk. I wish I never had to talk. I wish I never had to walk out of this house. I wish that something tragic would happen so I could have an excuse to miss work and an excuse to feel like shit.

How am I going to tell my perfect parents that I am on antidepressants?