tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13680868.post-1130728855256122992005-10-30T21:54:00.000-05:002005-10-30T22:20:55.270-05:00Sitting here in my room feeling empty, decided to Google N. Got a couple piecemeal records of her life--VJAS, UVA Wash club stuff...I guess from that much alone and some time on Google you could figure out what the N stands for. Like I care. Like *you* care, hell. I just don't want anyone to Google me. I spend time there at least once a month trying to figure out whether anyone from my real life (RL, we used to call it, on mpgames) could ever find any trace of my online activities. Cause...you know...my name's not really Ira. Or Ira***. Or Ira*** ********. But I've been Ira*** since 1999, and no one's caught me yet, so I abide with the alias. (Decided later not to give my full alias. Cause...I'm paranoid. Like you care.)<br /><br />I don't know why I do these things (Googling N). It's like picking a scab. I know it would heal faster if I left it alone, but my obsessive need for order and cleanliness drives me to keep peeling that scab off. My idea that, "if it hurts, that means it's working."<br /><br />I don't know why I alone feel alive when I'm in pain. Sorry, should have been "why I only feel".<br /><br />This is going to sound strange, but I want to cut myself. I haven't done it in so long. And...I know it's one more artificial way to change my mood, but...it's such the antithesis of drinking. And drinking, really, is what I associate the most with my memories of N...and, hell, C and J, too. The awareness of being trashed...an overwhelming sense of self-hatred...and an all-consuming rage and lust for destruction.<br /><br />It makes me physically nauseous just thinking about it in general terms. When I start getting specific...say, the time I fell off the front balcony...or the time I destroyed her laptop...or the time I drank myself into a blackout because I couldn't get to sleep with all the people talking in the living room (she ignored me this entire time, while everyone else was being friendly and chatting with me...as though it wasn't my living room, too)...the time I came home from the weekend and all the furnitiure was in my room because she was harving a partu--<br /><br />...<br /><br /><br />...<br /><br /><br />I'm sorry. I have to stop now. I almost want to cry just to get it out. I haven't cried in so long...I've forgotten how good it feels when you just get it OUT. But I'm afraid I'll suffocate myself, that I'll freak out and have a panic attack...that I'll have to take a Seroquel to stop it...that I'll pass out afterward and dream of suffocating all night, wake to find my mouth parched, my nose stuffed, and my face in the pillow, unable to move...<br /><br />I may cut. I may not. The only thing stopping me, and I'm being perfectly honest here, is the amount of trouble it always is to clean up the blood and bandage the cuts and walk around trying not to rip them open for a few days.<br /><br />Ta...Ira***.irahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08126052534311148133noreply@blogger.com