2 AM

I'm restless. I can't sleep once again. I got so high I passed out for a few hours in the afternoon, but haven't been able to get back to sleep. My entire sleep schedule is fucked. I'm going to sleep as much as possible between therapy appointments, the self-help programme and just trying new things to improve self-care. 

I wish I could sleep. It's my favourite escape; even though laying down for long periods of time hurts my back. I should get a better mattress, I really should. I always say that and then put it off, just in case I do kill myself, I don't have a brand new bed sitting here. The assholes that surround me will fight for it, but really, I don't want them having anything of mine. None of them deserves it. I want all of my belongings to be burned or gotten rid of. I don't want my putrid memory to linger. I want my urn to be buried where I was most happy, well actually I'd have it broken up and placed in London, Oslo, Magdeburg and Stockholm. Maybe Prague if there are enough ashes. In each burial spot, I want one of my favourite little plushies buried in there with me. I think that will be the comfort that I need. I'm almost tired of trying to be happy. I mean, what's the point? It never lasts that long and when the pain returns, the pain really returns. 

My restlessness consumes me. I keep trying to get comfortable, but nothing is working. I haven't showered in 2 days. I should do it. I didn't have the energy earlier; not like I have the energy now but maybe a decent dose of Clonazepam and a hot shower will relax me. I need to get up, but first I need to swallow two little magical pills. One wasn't enough to put me into the deep level of sleep I crave. Downed with Diet Coke, the little pale orange tablets of relief make their way into my stomach. I need them to work and work quickly. It's not that I'm having issues with staying sober or keeping my mind occupied; there's plenty on YouTube and Netflix that I'm trying to watch, it's keeping focus. I'm exhausted, so my focus wanders. It's gotten bad when I try to write some of these blogs, I just can't sit down and do them like I used to be able to. I need to get up and move around. I need to get up and do something else. I need to start and stop constantly. It's like that with almost all my telly programmes now too. Internal restlessness. Nothing feels worth it. 

I brush my teeth, feeling everything scrub off me. I love the way the mint and baking soda scrape the surface of my teeth. It's almost a gritty, chalky taste. I like it. Maybe there's something wrong with me. I spit and watch it all go down the drain. I want to go down the drain. A drop of pearl coloured shampoo drips down my chest and shimmers in the light while I'm working it through my wet mess of curls. I wish I could be like that. I watch it slide down my entire body in the candlelight. I can't stand to have the actual lights on and see my naked body. That's enough to make me throw up. The steam is so calming. My body gel scrub is a violent turquoise blue. I kinda want that colour in my skin. It would compliment my paleness perfectly. There was a time when I was a child. There was a time when I was not tattooed. I almost start screaming. I can't go back to being boring and normal. I can't go back to being naked. My tattoos are one of the most important parts of me. I feel everything around me feeling like it's pressing on me. I accidentally smack my fresh wrist cuts into the marble of the shower wall and they begin to cry in an eruption of colour. It splashes against the wall and dribbles down, turning an orangy pink. It doesn't even look like human blood. I can't believe that I'm even human enough to bleed. Or am I? I don't want to stem the bleeding. I run the gashes until the steaming water, allowing the burn to seduce me. I feel stimulation in the worst possible way. My arousal at the pain that I'm feeling is horrific and disgusting. I am nothing more than a disease. 

I can feel the clonazepam starting to wrap its soothing arms around me; they're fluffy and warm. I lean into him and allow myself to sink into its soft, pillow-like stomach. I feel comfortable for the first time in ages. I didn't want to have to resort to this, but I need to be unconscious. I can't be awake feeling this level of pain or dealing with my restlessness. I crawl out of the shower, wrapping the towel around me. There is just something safe about blankets and towels and oversized clothing. I'm still damp as I slide into my sleeping shorts. It's too warm for me to try and find a t-shirt. No, I should rephrase that; It's too much effort for me to try and find one. I crawl into the bed, feeling the silkiness of the sheets against my freshly washed skin. That's what I did, didn't I? I washed my body. Soap and water together are washing. Who decided that was the act of getting things clean? When did this really become a popular habit? I start thinking of people heating kettles of water over a fire to wash and women taking off their petticoats and diving into streams. The same water they washed their coochies in, they drank. Makes you wonder why there weren't more oral STIs...or maybe there were and no one knew it. Mystery Illness: 1800s edition. Brought to you by Billy the Kid.  **Audience applause** 

The blankets feel like a second skin as I pull them over me. The weight of the three blankets on top of me is both comforting and suffocating. Too much heat. Too much weight. I need the beauty of sleep to wash over me about now. The numbing and lightheartedness has taken over me, just waiting for the sle-

Good Night