I feel like I’m blogging my life away. It’s tiring to be so excruciatingly honest, recording every detail, re-feeling every emotion.  Purging yourself of this poison.  It is precisely an abscess, dead emotional tissue accumulated after an infection of the soul. Ubi pus, ibi evacua, "where there is pus, there evacuate it.”

Last night was one of the worst. I got extremely distressed after txt-talking to KF, my ex-boyfriend. I don’t know why I resumed communication with him; I thought with time something would change. He would understand. How foolish! I shouldn’t have been hurt by the same accusations, but he knows me too well to get to the most sensitive places inside of me. And I hate him for that. I don’t understand why he had to come back and hurt me again. I told him I’m sorry for the pain I brought him, I understand my wrongdoing – never involve another with your problems, never trust so deeply and so overwhelmingly without getting to know the person first. I am so naïve for thinking that if a person went through hell (alcohol/drug abuse, panic attacks, loneliness), he would be more empathetic and understanding. Not necessarily, it turns out, not always, not at all. Sometimes it makes you more self-centered and callous to suffering of others. Please, God, don’t let me become that.

I cried and cried and cried the whole night. My mother got upset too, seeing me like this. I felt her judging eye: “Girl, how could you be so stupid and naïve! I told you he is no good”. That was the last thing I needed at that moment. I closed off and refused to talk anymore. She got angry, “By not telling me, you make me worry. Don’t you care about me?” This guilt tripping added anxiety to my tears. Anxiety harbored suicidal thoughts, which were already floating in my head. I was on the verge. If she didn’t come and yell at me, if for a moment she let me be, something terrible would have happened. She knew that.  As a culmination to this terrible night I told her nasty mean things and she started slapping me. Then we both calmed down and made up.

I know she cares about me and wants to help but I find it hard to talk to her. She says not knowing what’s going on is worse for her because it makes her worry even more. I know it’s not true. For the past 7 years she was blissfully ignorant of anything that was going on. She never knew about my attempt when I was 12; she ignored when I cut at 14. In fact, I remember distinctly her laughing and mocking me about it. I hated her for dismissing my pain as “adolescent hormones”. Now, after cops searching for me, hospitals, guns and drinking, more hospitals, ambulance bills, rope hanging from the balcony, and tears, tears, tears, she finally understood that yes, I have a problem. She is there for me even if I try to push her away. No matter what she is the closest person I’ve got. Mothers are this way.

I still don’t want to talk to her. I’m fine as far as she should be concerned. Yes, I’m proud and I don’t want to ask for help from others.

Briefly I want to mention, that I went to see a psychiatrist today. He was a nice young guy. I disliked him from the start, with his “professional”, matter-of-fact sterile way of asking me about my innermost painful experiences. I basically told him everything I described in blog #2. He prescribed me Seroquel 25mg to deal with anxiety at the moment and see how I react to it (yes, I will get fat and ugly). Then he wants to start me on Wellbutrin as long-term antidepressant. I want him to go to hell.

I’m tired. I’m tired of being honest. I’m tired of convincing myself everything will be ok. I want everything to go fuck itself. Have a nice day.

Currently listening: Salyu – Valon-1