Thursday, 3 February 2011

Violence.

I've become obsessed with violence.

Last week I ended up in hospital, because I was so down that I genuinely forgot to eat and drink. I went four nights with literally not a second of sleep, because I was afraid of losing control. It's all very ironic, I know, as what I was doing to attempt to claw control over those hours between daylight culminated in... well, a total breakdown of communication between every part of my being and yet another admission to put under my belt; a true lack of control, oh aye.

And now. Have I eaten today? I must have; my stomach is uncomfortably full, and all I want to do is vomit until I see blood. I don't want to vomit because I'm afraid of what's in me, calories or fat, it's more I need to because I'm afraid of... well yes, having anything in me. I'm afraid of not pushing the limits and not feeling the pain- I'm afraid of that silence. I need a loudness, a violence. I don't want that silence, this silence, this emptyness. Because I know that when all is silence and still bad things happen, bad things scurry in and fill the void.

All I can think of is ways to inflict violence, to cause the greatest noise within my body. I don't want to think. I want you to beat me up, to kick the shit out of me in a way that I'd love to be able to do to myself. I need a Tyler Durden, perhaps. I want to break, physically. But instead, I'm being a passive little bitch. I'm isolating and deliberately pissing off the people close to me, because although that's not nearly loud enough, it's better than silence. Causing such irritability, making myself a target for your weapons... I'm sorry.

I'm sorry.

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