Comfort Zones

I still can't make it stop. I talk, and nothing I say is nothing I mean. I am so angry I do not know how to be nice. I played raquetteball by myself this morning, slamming it into walls. I couldn't just stay on a treadmill and run. I had to move, to keep moving. I tried punching those silly bags on stands, but they didn't help. So I slammed balls into walls for an hour and then sat in a corner and held my head until Tony thought I was gone and came to turn the lights off.

I don't know how to make this stop. I don't know how. I feel so gutted. I want to drink myself into oblivion. I can't imagine ever painting a picture again. I can't imagine ever laughing again, or smiling, or caring. I want to scream, to get this anger out, to make someone pay. I want to hurt someone badly. I want to scream, "I have no pity for you, you have everything I want, I have no sympathy."

The sun is out. There's a whole world out there. Last night I almost got in the car and started driving down the interstate toward the unknown. I want to go where no one knows me, where no one can hurt me, where life is just a blank. It hurts far too much to care. I want to be done caring. I want to stop trying. I want this giant ball of pain in my throat to dissolve somehow and go away so I can talk again, so I can smile. I cannot distract my brain for long enough. I try to fix my mind on one neutral thing, like the book I've been listening to on tape, or like buying clothing, but only moments later my mind is back to fixating on that which I can't fix, can't change, and can't live with.

This isn't funny. This isn't okay. My comfort zone would be a group home with someone watching over me daily and no responsibilities. I am always out of my comfort zone, my friend, always. I have no pity for you.