Caffeine, my antidrug….wait…what?
I just got informed it’s apparently national coffee day.
[Of course, it’s the day I forget my coffee at home so I can’t enjoy some. *facepalm*]
Back last summer, I was pretty much consuming between 1 to 2 grams of caffeine a day (approximately equivalent to ten to twenty cups of coffee), an insane amount by basically any metric.
And I won’t defend it as a good idea, but it did keep me alive at the time.
[TW: Explicit suicidal ideation, explicit discussion of methods of suicide]
The dreams lately are fairly nonsensical. I’d never knife myself in reality.
Or at least, I don’t think I would.
But it’s these images that are filling my dreams lately, more often than they used to. Dreaming of feeling a long, thin, slick blade sliding between my ribs, going through my lungs, my heart. This should hurt, yet, in my dreams, it never does.
I hate the fact that I have to take life a little slower these days.
I hate the fact that I’m often too exhausted to cook properly, to clean up after myself, to eat properly, to wash my hair, to brush my teeth.
I hate the fact that I’ve been put on pause.
I hate the fact that this is necessary.
Today, I’m exhausted.
I woke up, late, wanting nothing more than to curl up in a ball and go back to sleep. It takes me many minutes to drag my sorry carcass out of bed. My energy levels are absurdly low; even a small handful of French Roast coffee beans, ground between my teeth and pressed against the insides of my cheeks to maximize caffeine absorption, cannot seem to give me any energy.
It’s Saturday, and I’m still alive. Still existing, somehow.
I don’t feel alive.