Stuck with a Punk ✔

No. 78.: Talking about it

I want to die. It's not a metaphor, it's a genuine feeling. I don't feel like healing from this, I just feel like plainly giving in and dying, to be over with it all. I want the sweet release of death. I want to lie somewhere, my brain releasing the last blast of endorphins to get me high, then my brain letting go of all shit and piss as I'm done with it all. It's a turning point in my life, because I wanted to die in a dignified way, and now I don't care if I die whilst drowning in my piss. 

As if my suffering hasn't been intense enough, I am spastically checking Annabelle's Instagram. Joke's on me, 'cause her profile is private and I don't even use Instagram, so the only thing I can see are her followers count and the display picture, which is just a silhouette of her in the sunset. 

From time to time, things improve. By that, I mean I get better and then worse, then better again and then completely crash down in the span of ten minutes. I don't know how long I've been here at work. I don't know how much longer I need to sit here and feel bad about myself. And I certainly don't want to look at the clock, I don't think I'd survive a heart attack on top of everything that's happened. 

For the time of being while I'm actually working, even if it's just reading an e-mail, I feel better. Not exactly feel good and happy, but numb is way better than feeling like absolute trash. 

This brings me to my next theory: being a psychopath must be fucking great. You don't feel shit and you can do whatever you want because it won't hurt you. All those people that say 'oh, but that's like living a life without seeing colours, it's not the full experience', lemme ask you: do you even know it if you haven't experienced it yet? No. So, it's great. 

I immediately know I'd get a lot of contradictions for that statement, especially from Annabelle, and for a moment my mood lifts up. I can clearly visualise her appalled expression, the inability to comprehend what did I just say or how could I even say it. Then she'd probably drop or make a joke about me being bored in the ethics class and finding it useless. 

The next thing that hits me again is utter despair and pain. I feel the agony slowly starting to knot in my stomach and then growing and enlarging, reaching out with its tentacles like an octopus across my body, pulling me down until I'm completely swamped. 

Again, I'm brought back to my original thought: I'd like to be a psychopath. 

I don't know what I dread more - being here or having to go back home. I can somehow get busy here, even if it only means I'll sit in my chair and feel sorry for myself, at least I can throw a quick look at some of the models people have sent me. What the hell am I gonna do once I get home? I can't work because Devon will probably want to play or cuddle or cry, and I relate to the last two options. Every second that I will spend with Devon and I'll do something wrong or Devon won't respond to something as little babies should, it will all serve as a quick reminder that I suck at this and Annabelle didn't. 

Let's be honest, no matter what I look at, it all reminds me of her. On my way to work, there was a song on a radio that was playing when Annabelle went with me to Aidan's birthday party. I saw someone from another department having a birthday and others bringing him a cake, and of course that reminded me when I met Annabelle for the first time. When I look at the plans and how much work I have, I'm taken back to when she decided to help me out when I was, like old British ladies say it, in a bit of a pickle! A mere look at my car sent me spiralling because the red colour reminded me of her hair. 

I don't know if it's some sick joke of the universe to send everything that has at 1% of chance to trigger me, or if the problem is in me, but, boy, it's pretty damn effective, and I haven't been able to think straight. 

It's like I'm going insane. I'm not sure if I could speak to other people without going all weird on them because my thoughts keep trailing to how I feel and how I made her feel. It's not because of stuttering, though that has a role in this. What I'm hinting at here, is something completely different.