Then there's my counselor. I love my counselor, but I'm tired of going. I need him, now more than I have in the past few months for sure, but that's why I'm tired of going: I'm fucking tired. Always. I'm exhausted. I'm miserable. I hate myself. I have daily panic attacks. I cry for at least an hour every single day, not counting the frequent nights that I cry in my sleep (so I'm told). Something is very not right with me, and it's getting worse. Slowly at first, but now my mental/emotional state is getting worse rather rapidly. Almost by the day, I am getting worse.
According to the Beau, I look like I've lost "at least five pounds," but he always says that, so I ignore it. Kind of like he ignored my immediate confession the other night when I sliced my leg eight times and my arm four.. well, he ignored it after he hung up on me in mid-sentence.
Apparently we're back to the stage we were at five years ago: if you don't talk about it, then it never happened. He's in Colorado skiing for the weekend, so it will never be discussed. I'm fine with not talking about it, I'm just shocked beyond shock that he is fine with it, too. Usually all he wants to do is talk about my fuckups. My "not eating," or my "self destruction," or my "depression," or my (here's my favorite) "not talking."
But he's been quite standoffish when it comes to my blatant mental/emotional deterioration lately. As much as his bitching about my fuckups can get on my nerves horribly & as much as I whine about it, I secretly like it. I like that he worries, because then I know he cares. I know he cares anyways, but I really wish he wanted to talk, because I need to, but when I start talking to him I just feel like a nuisance and stop myself before I say too much then say aloud, "oh nevermind it doesn't matter. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything. I'm fine. Nothing's wrong." while I'm obviously lying, the tears smeared across my cheeks and shirt and blood on my sleeve as evidence.
I don't know why it's become so hard for me to ask for help again. It never was my strong suit, but I was doing well for some time there. Now I feel like the 15-year-old silent girl shooting heroin in her bathroom and starving herself as cries for help. Albeit, I am not doing either of those things, nor do I plan to, but I'm baiting people to ask me what's wrong, to ask me to talk to them, to cradle and coddle me and tell me it's going to be okay while I sob, but it's not working and I'm too much of a pussy and a money-guilt to just fucking say something. Why can't I just fucking SAY SOMETHING?
I have to go to class now.