my thoughts are pacing. i write for a few minutes until the words slip away and i wander over to the bed, lie down knees tight against chest, comforter pulled up to eyebrows. five minutes later i can't stand being there, find a computer game to play.
everything feels too intense. i can't just lift this glass, i have to clench a fist around it. every muscle tight, movements stiff, measured, like in a dream but hard, not soft and gauzy. the knot between my shoulderblades is matched by the lump at the base of my throat, parallel aches.
nothing in particular happened today. no trauma. just life. god *damn* it, why can't i stop this?? knowing i'm not to blame doesn't make it easier. i can't bring myself to leave this room. how do you explain that to people?
mentally ill. oh, baby. my little sister writing my older sister that i don't *seem* overtly crazy. gee, maybe i should arrange some mania or work up to a suicide attempt, just to prove that i'm for real. i wonder what it would be like if i were an obvious loony; she treats me as a child as it is. i empathize strongly with 50s housewives now. lots of housework and no independent adult status. today i cleaned and vacuumed and did the dishes and cleared out the pantry and swept and tomorrow maybe i'll do laundry again. no one's making me do this; i just feel like i should contribute *something* to the household.
and all the time, knowing they're watching, waiting for me to do something extreme.