29jan

something is wrong, i think: something inside, not my head. i can't get out of bed, barely even to clutch at my computer for some semblance of humanity; the exhaustion is so deep that lying in bed is difficult; i can't adjust myself comfortably, and the bones of my forearms, resting on the mattress, are crawling out of my skin, begging for sleep. i obsess over the fleshiness of my chin. i smell myself rotting: even when i force myself to endure a shower, i pick up one shirt, another, throw it back to my dresser, because everything smells musty, and i am suffocated by my own decay. i wear my father's undershirts sometimes because they smell clean. i am reminded of the way the vet described my dog's body, after she'd been eaten through by cancer. and maybe i am, and i wouldn't be wholly sad.

something has to give soon, one way or another. this is not sustainable. but i don't know how to get better and the other option is obvious. i've been to two doctors in the past handful of months and both were disasters. i sleep seven hours at a time except twice a day. i drink, and drink; i confess my sins to the internet.