Thread: tortured's padded cell

Welcome... I guess... to tortured's padded cell. Do not cross the yellow line in front of the bars for any reason. Do not approach or pass anything through the bars. Do not be drawn into conversation about yourself, you do not want a single personal piece of information inside this woman's head. Do not underestimate her short stature and thin frame. Alert an orderly if the patient requires care or sedation. Do not deviate from this protocol one iota for any reason. Well, that's the formalities out of the way. I must not tell lies... I must not tell lies... I must not tell lies... Sometimes, I just shouldn't be permitted to mix with society. Sometimes I need a place for quiet contemplation, even if introspection is the absolute last thing I want to do. Sometimes I hurt myself but it doesn't hurt. Sometimes I'm just numb. I appear to have a finite supply of sanity and self control kicking around inside my skull and when it's gone, well it's gone and for quite some while. Sometimes I run out of reasons to breathe. Sometimes I see absolute logic in killing myself. Sometimes I just don't want to be, to think or to wake up to the same shit ever again. Sometimes oblivion from booze or drugs just isn't oblivion. Sometimes I hurt people physically andor emotionally because I am totally convinced that they'd be better off without me in their lives and I therefore want them to go away. I am pathologically introverted and there are very few people I can tolerate the company of for longer than it takes to drain a glass. Even sex has no intimacy for me, which is a good thing because I'm an escort. I'm finally free of the juvenile social care system and I have control over my own life, what I've craved for years and yet, I am inescapably out of control. I shouldn't be writing this because I shouldn't be here. Last night I took a month's worth of psyche meds with a bottle of vodka. I got into bed hoping and expecting never to wake up. I woke up in my own piss and vomit and am now aggravatingly alive and without any more medication. I now need a new mattress and groceries and all the mundane crap that goes with being alive. I still don't feel like I can take another day. And I hate myself for this, that because of some shit I suffered when I was younger I have blossomed into a walking cliche, a bleak social statistic. I am beneath my own contempt, which is no place to be when I have a scorching hangover. I ditched my last shrink when he branded me obstinate because I didn't want to join an amateur dramatic group or go to college. My whole life has been ordered and structured for me by people I cannot stand and do not trust. The absolute last place I need to be is in a fucking classroom. I don't want to better myself or plan for the future because right now I just do not want a future of any description. I'm sick and tired of picking apart my short and pitiful life in order to have the glaringly obvious reasons for my mental health problems pointed out to me. It doesn't take a fucking psyche degree, that's for damn sure. The medication works when it works, but it blunts me, it makes me stupid. Maybe happiness and optimism simply require a certain degree of stupidity. I hate having to choose between being miserable or retarded. I hate feeling like and being treated as a retard because I'm on psyche meds. It frequently makes me batshit homicidal. So maybe typing this shit here will me process it. I've never kept a journal before, never had the slightest desire to document my existence. But if anyone knows what's wrong with me and why, it's me. If anyone can figure out a way to live with all this shit inside my head and form some kind of long term gameplan, it's me when I'm not on medication... or drunk or high. Fuck the quacks, I'll shrink my own head and cram all the years of misery into a reinforced crate marked 'Do not open under any circumstances, you dumb fucking cunt.' Truthfully, I'm sick of myself, bored and exhausted. Very little challenges or interests me. For all practical purposes I'm a walking void. I'm almost certainly sociopathic or at least highly dissociative. I genuinely want to murder my father, I often fantasise about it, it would take days and I would sleep like a baby afterwards. It's beginning to dawn on me that unless something changes I'm going to wake up one day a fully fledged monster. I'm a tiny, scrawny little girl and already when I get a certain look in my eye people back the fuck off. Whatever it is they're afraid of, it's a justifiable fear. I trained in martial arts and as a means of defence but now I feel like a weapon. I am incapable of love and frequently of empathy or pity. I view all the warm fuzzy emotions basically as weaknesses. I cannot stand them in lovers or friends. Love is something I don't trust, need or want in my life and 99 of the time, I am completely ok with that. I'm aware that I'm broken inside. I'm actually glad that my father maimed my internal plumbing with his abuse because I am the kind of woman who should be barren. I don't feel like a woman at all. I have never known a maternal bond, I have no tits or curves and I can't procreate and have zero desire to. I hate children, they're even more pointless and annoying than most adults. The only being I have any kind of emotional bond with is my cat. He was a fellow outcast when he found me a fleabitten, worm riddled stray with clear evidence of having suffered abuse at human hands. He, the lucky fucking bastard, gets to live out his days in complete security and comfort in my apartment. He's even beginning to stop ripping his own fur out and growling or hissing at me whenever I touch him. His life problems are over and part of me deeply resents that whenever I look at him curled contentedly somewhere. One day he's going to just purr when I stroke him and I may have to wring his little neck for that. goes away from behind her eyes and slumps vacantly in the corner of her cell