Don't Think.

Day 3

Well. The numbness wore off. I seemed alright until about 2pm. Not alright in a "I think I'm okay now" way, but alright in a "I can't feel anything..." way. A friend said it seemed as if there was a wall around me, even my eyes were glazed over. I felt it too. Since therapy I've walked in a mist, feelings nothing, seeing nothing, nothing bad but nothing good either. Im impartial to anything. I am outside. But then the thoughts flooded back. I went back to heaving rocks in my chest and punching walls (number of greenish bruises acquired on my knuckles - 3) and staring blankly into nothingness. Its cold outside, everyone is moaning but I'm glad. The bitterness is so distracting and icy that I don't need to think. Don't think, Asya. Even my name, just reading it - worthlessworthlessworthless.

I found a song today. For a split second I believed it was for me. But I'm stupid, nothing is for me anymore why would it be? But is that really how you felt? Caged by me?

I'm free, you are my saviour

I'm free you are my guiding soul

All I need is you.

After 3 days of being out of your life, your freedom overfills you... I am bitter. Bitter and bruised. "Saviour"... from me. "Guiding soul"...away from me. "All I need is you"... I heard that once. Twice. A thousand times. He doesn't need anyone else now, understand that. Im reading too much into it, being pathetic again. Grow UP Asya. "Like an angel brought to life" - that hurt me. You used to call me angel, no one else, it was mine. Now I guess she lived up to the name in a few weeks, while I had five years to find it, have it and have it stolen. Its just a song, only a song. But it seems to be so much all at once.

The numbing wall is gone, and hurt is back, raw and blaring in my head. I don't want anything. Stay in a cell and waste away minute after minute with the only things that are mine now - memories. What difference would it make anyway? He doesn't love you. Friends. What an ambiguous term that is. We were "friends" once. It sounds so self-absorbed but friendship would never be enough. After so long I want to hold and love and spend every second with him. Cup of tea once a month, so he tells me how beautiful and funny she is, and their plans for christmas? I hit my wall just thinking about it. Being Friends I would instinctively act sour and rude and end up hurting as much as him, apologising and hating myself moremoremore. No, friends would have a tragic ending. Not that this jewel of a conclusion isn't tragic.

Hope is a dangerous dangerous thing and its sufforcating me. When the phone rings, I hope. When I get an email, I hope. When the doorbell rings, I hope. Then reason sets in - if he cared, he would call. If he cared, he would turn up at your door. Other part of reason: You told him to leave you alone, so he is. Reason 1: But if he really cared he wouldn't listen at all, he knows you well enough. Reason 2: Maybe he doesn't, maybe he never knew you. Maybe you never knew him. He doesn't care. Reason 1: Surely he must worry, he knows how extreme you are when depressed. Reason 2: What has that got to do with him? He doesn't care. Reason 1: He doesn't care. Wow, I really sound insane. Talking in my head, aloud talktalktalktalk What do words mean anyway? Infuriating hurtful sounds we made up to hurt eachother more than we do already. It meant nothing. Each time I think back to the Nothing its a stab in my side, I think about it non-stop.

I'm free - and I am so excrutiatingly sorry that you didn't feel you were... I found a response in song. If I can't talk to you I can at least relate to music.

"We're minutes away from saying goodbye for all of time.

I'm seconds away from breaking apart

I'm sorry for everything." Dead By April.

Freeze time, I don't want to know what will become of this stupid lifeline. I want to burn everything I see. I want to hit every surface around me. I want to scream until the air is out of my lungs. For now, I'll sit in hysterics on the carpet.

Still, Love You I.

P.S. The photograph is by Eleanor Hardwick, a brilliant talented young photographer. This is supposedly Ophelia, from Hamlet, who killed herself after discovering of what Hamlet was capable of doing to her.