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03.11.2003 12:45 pm
anhedonia
Fifteen minutes to myself. Not time enough to get anything done. Although I should be learning lines for "Machinal." Stayed up all night last night [Musical interlude: "Think of how I adore you, think of how much you love me. If I were perfect for you, wouldn't you tire of me....?" from "A Little Night Music" by Stephen Sondheim] with Corey. And I'm in trouble. I realize this, as I talk again to someone who I trust won't judge me, someone who doesn't shut down when he hears the words "kill myself." Anna, God bless her, simply doesn't accept... "First I'll slap you. Then I'll hug you! Then we'll hold each other." But it's there, the thought is there, tainting happy moments with prescience of what I would miss. Hm. This is when this forum runs into trouble with me. Do I need to explain that I'm not going to kill myself? (Note the clever literary device in which I state, without stating it, that I won't kill myself.) But the curse of suicidial ideation is the way it undermines every thought you have for your own future. (After a long pause...) Suicide is a very, very personal thing. I know it's inevitable that people left in the wake feel guilt, and anger, but ... there's only so much another person can do to alleviate another person's suffering, even if that suffering is purely mental. What can you do? A smile in the hallway. "Hm, she doesn't look depressed." When did I change how I shared my sadness? I used to wear it so clearly. Mom said my whole voice and appearance changed completely. Now... I don't appreciate patronization. I don't need a look of pity or sympathy. I need... what you can't give. I thought of that last night, with Corey. I almost said to him, "I need something from you, but what I want is something different, and less." I need... connection. And touch. And promises. From Corey, all I've ever wanted was a friend. But there's still that need, that hunger, beneath. You can't give me what I want. The huge, anonymous "you." Will you ever?
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