House arrest: an autobiography

I don't remember when exactly I started to feel this way, but it happened after I turned 27. I recalled the months prior, and the vows I'd made to myself. I was going to be healthy again. I was that person, I am still her, but different.

At first I made excuses, I said that I could do whatever was on my agenda tomorrow and I didn't think twice about it. Then I just stopped going to the gym, I figured that if I just watched what I ate and worked a decent amount that I would just maintain my current weight. It was like this for a couple of months, but then the headaches started. And they kept coming. And soon I just didn't get out of bed.

Literally.

I just layed there, my mind active and my conscious floating above me, staring at the atrophied puppet I'd become.
I was upset to say the least, I wanted to be the girl I was before, who played roller derby and hung out with friends, confidence abound. I had done something to her, I'd never felt so strange.

Should I be an earthquake I'd barely register, I'd be the hurricane who never made landfall. Why this struggle?

I wake up in the mornings, early enough I believe, and then I just lay there. I'm tired for whatever reason, and my head hurts, not terribly but enough to nag. I am worried about myself.

I have used every morning since I felt this way to think about what ails me. Is it my thyroid? Is it TMJ? Is it cancer?

I think about the last thing, the very last thing that I want it to be.

Am I depressed?

No. I can't be depressed. I am mentally well, I mean, sure I have OCD issues, but they're under control.

I cannot be depressed. That would make me a hypocrite. I have been coaching several friends struggling through darkness onto the path of recovery.

No it's impossible.

Elle,  you have to get a grip.

You, the girl who supouts uplifting mantras to her friends. I, who spreads the gospel of therapy.

I simply cannot be depressed.

And then it hits like a 10 ton train.

2016 4:42 AM

First hours of the first day of the year and here I am,

Awake. Reluctant. Aroused.

It's the conversations I have with myself that worry me; I can't decide if they're healthy or a sign of what's to come.

I have these fantasies, perhaps delusions of grandeur, that keep me awake- I feel sick but all together I feel...normal?

Who the fuck knows.

I wan't weak men to stop leaning on me for support, I can't help you. I don't want to help you.

I'm freaking out. I'm freaking out?

In between the lucid dreams I manipulate in which we are in close quarters I imagine touching the live wires in the fuse box. Between the conversations of what is on the menu and whatever the fuck you're doing in your own fucking life I google "exit bag" and dream up ways I can go without putting up too much of a fuss.

In the act of suicide does one become painfully aware of the boredom that's drawn them there?

When does the panic set in?

For the record I'm not suicidal, I'm just bored.

And morbidly curious.

When I was young my mother told me never to touch a lightbulb when I was wet. When I was young I deliberately touched a lightbulb when I was wet, When I was young I was electrocuted.

Here I am.

Frustrated, frantic, furious.

 I didn't imagine this, you fuck.

You fucking piece of mind fucking shit fuck. I hate you, I want to hate you. Please hate me too.

I'm ridden with guilty feelings tinged with jealousy. I am mad at myself for even thinking, dreaming, inventing scenarios that would not, could not materialize.

More so I'm off put by my own aversion to long term commitment, largely due to a pattern of disappointment by innumerable faceless suitors. All first names, identified by an article of clothing or choice of music, just a file in a cabinet- collecting dust.

god dammit.

At least there's porn.