balsamandash: Abigail Hobbs (Hannibal) from nose to sternum, twisting her fingers together nervously (han] what a year and what a night)
Distractions don't work, brain is broken. Tried sleep and it didn't do any good. I'm talking about it too much and I'm sorry. I want to write so bad it's a physical pain but I have no focus. I want people so bad my chest is aching but I don't know what to do with them. I'm tired. I'm so fucking tired. I'm sorry I keep being useless. I'm sorry I can't just shut up and deal with my shit. I'm sick of me, I'm sure everyone else is too.

I have to remember how to drag myself out of bed and out of the house without the external motivation of "someone's going to come and talk to me and I'd have to explain why I'm not going" this week, and I'm not sure that's going to work. I just want to quit and I'm not allowed. I want everything to be done. I want to be far, far away from here and I want almost everything about my life to be different. And I'm not allowed to do it fast and I'm paralyzed with fear when I try to do it slowly.

I'm sorry.
balsamandash: (my fish are dead)
The fish are dead. The fish are super dead and I still need to find a way to bring up the subject of moving to my mother, now in full awareness that she hates the idea, thinks it's screwing up, and thinks I should settle in at my grandmother's indefinately.

The fish are fucking skeletons, the spoons are entirely gone, my head is splitting and I don't know what to do with anything and I still have to present as a rational, sane creature to everyone around me for the undefinable future.

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The Marquis de All The Knives

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