took your life apart, called your failures art.

I am this close to giving up.

I do not know what “giving up” entails, exactly, only that it would probably involve a sudden collapse. A sudden failure to communicate, a sudden bout of even more sleeping than I have been doing, a sudden rash of scab-lines on my skin, a sudden, lengthy fit of tears and screaming.

I do not really want to do this but I don’t know what else to do. Words are so frustrating, useless little implements of nothing. Talking is boring or silly or useless at best, counterproductive and confusing at worst. Writing, lately, is ineffective. I can’t communicate or process, at least not to any useful conclusion, and isn’t that the point?

I take steps to fix things, use words to solve problems, put them together like little puzzle pieces into nice, neat sentences where the edges all fit into place, make pretty pictures of how things are. The explanations are good, the closest I’ve gotten to making sense of this, but they don’t make things better. I want to be SOLVED, the 1000-piece puzzle finally whole. Instead I have fragments, the corners, maybe, or those coincidental bits that fit, the ones you find still stuck together in the bottom of the box or that just catch your eye as you search for edges. I try to push the pieces together and just make messes. Looking through them is difficult.  It just makes things worse. I’m trying to put things together, make me whole, but I end up breaking them apart again. The danger is that I’m not really a jigsaw puzzle, not made out of cardboard. I’m a human being and when I break my skin I bleed.

I was so fine, even though I wasn’t. I was dealing, through paint and excessive sleep, but I knew it wouldn’t last. Ironically the decision to actually utilize the whole “therapy” thing, to actually attempt to ‘fess up and face things, was the last straw. Four weeks, five, months, I don’t know (not counting a couple moments of “oooooh sharp!” with art-supply-objects) but I hate this feeling of having failed. I am not giving in yet but it feels like I have given in to something.

I really want to paint or write poems or stories or be productive in some way but all I do is sleep and scream silently. It doesn’t do anything, it really doesn’t. My hands are cold.