Blasting Shitty Radio Music With The Intention of Rattling My Brain

this has been culminating in my head for I guess quite some time now. the days have been posing more and more difficult to get through, 
leaving me embarrassed by how surprised I am by that.

I keep OCD-spinning on this idea, so uncontrollably, the visual of you and I drowning; our heads are above water, and we're side by side but not that close, I told you that I cried about us, this was why. standing in my apartment, still for a moment, after wandering around nervously, speaking aloud to the empty room, "you're losin' it". I thought there for a second about which of us was objectively doing worse, and for the first time in a long while, I concernedly decided that it could be you, and it made me feel (a whole lot worse). this really isn't intended to be about anyone in particular, I mean I could divulge every pathetic detail of my evenings; upping my sleeping pill dosage and listening to that fucking song on repeat in my face on my cellphone. I pretend to know what could do everyone (anyone) good. I drive around, terribly sick to my stomach, my pulsing skin crawling, I'm cursing at no one in particular, it hurts to blame yourself with this much pain. I don't want to remember any of this. what I am writing to say, is that I could move to chico, and I would like to formally admit that to myself. I would pack, move to an apartment there, and things would be marginally better, and marginally worse. the only pro would be leaving this apartment, and the only con would be leaving this city. that isn't entirely true, but I don't currently care. who will watch over you when I am gone? this is NOT to say that someone needs to be, but rather for MY sake (seeing that I cannot even manage to do a decent job of it myself, even while convinced I care the most). you wouldn't tell me shit, I'd so soon as cry in your face. this kills me, and has never happened to me before, I suppose it leaves me feeling..... remorseful, that I could err so inconveniently on the side of honesty. this is why people are guarded, this is why people build walls, this year and last year, and last year, and the last year, I've been rubbed so raw. what else could this really look like? even dressed up, it is still a wound. my entire existence. what scares the shit out of me is how okay things are, they aren't even that bad. in therapy I am ashamed at how little I actually have to speak about, locked in the car with you I am dissatisfied by how easy the conversation is, how simple it is to get along. EVERYTHING IS FINE. everything but me. thirty six more days and I am going to tell my therapist the truth. I didn't sign up to say what I have been talking about, I am not paying from MY pocket for her to listen to whether or not I had energy to text someone or leave the house on weekends. I NEED HELP, ANY KIND. put me on suicide watch, make me quit my fucking stupid useless job. you know why I am so upset when I am not included in meetings? because it makes me face the fact that I am dirt, on the level with everyone else who was too incompetent to get asked to sit in that room. I am nothing special, I am probably an unskilled receptionist, sitting there bored on my high-horse, shrouded in my superiority complex. I can't even go home, too humiliated to show my face. HEY GUESS WHAT I'VE BEEN DOING FOR SIX LONG MONTHS, delaying the process of inevitable fucking defeat (AGAIN). maybe I want to be over-weight, under-educated and unemployed, DID ANYONE THINK OF THAT. everything good is gone, which continues to be a very, very clear indication as to why I am still here. I was a good apple then, just preparing to rot slowly to its core. (I'm broke and depressed and broken and it DOESN'T MATTER, because I've been here before, and I'll be here again, and if not, it's just been this way all along forever.)