backstabber

Amanda Fucking Palmer is going to get me through this.
There's a girl in Michigan I miss, a pinup beauty with a smile like snicker you don't let slip through your lips but you feel deep in your chest. I wear her ring to remember that she's out there; I keep a hope locked away that maybe she's thinking of me, that maybe her thinking of me will help me in some impossible cosmic way. I doubt it, but it's there. And there it is.
Panic attacks are returning. I should be finding a job. Instead I sit here writing, trying to sort the shit out in my head so I can try to figure out a way to function and pretend like I actually have a clue of what I'm doing on this godforsaken planet. I think I'm going to paint later.
I have no idea what I'm doing. I'm so painfully self-aware that I can't even move without finding something wrong with what I'm doing. I'm so caught up with trying to justify what I'm going through that I don't even know my own name half the time. I can't face my life and admit that it's mine, I can't figure out where I'm supposed to place myself. I'm 20, I'm doing literally nothing. I feel like my life is a complete waste already, that I'm replacing "living" with "trying to recover from a seriously fucked up childhood and struggling with mental illness that threatens to overwhelm on a daily basis". I don't want to simply survive, but it seems like that's all I can manage. I can't even get out of bed some days. Shit.

I'm going to take out some of this anger on my paint brushes that Aston bought me. I love that boy so much it hurts.