Sleep is this godly thing that lets you wake up in the morning and not be wrapped up tight in all of your own pain and misery. I can still feel it, right out there, edging in, and I know it will be the dead dead dead feeling by the end of the day that sucks me down and silences my everything. Right now, while I'm not enthused, and I don't want to go to the doctor, and I don't really want to do anything in particular, I don't mind it yet. It's almost nice. My mother keeps trying to be logical, it's sad. She can't comprehend that this disaster that keeps going on in my brain is not logical, is not centered on bodily cause-effect patterns. She wanted to know where all the bandaids were going (apparantly it's a breast infection; very disgusting, wish it wasn't) and then thought I was cutting... *asked* if I was cutting. I really hate her sometimes. I reject her right no know. I'm intensely irritated by her incapable fumblings and inept attempts to be gentle when she's no idea what gentle is. She can't ask the right questions, she can't make the right response, and she won't stop staring at me when I'm just not-being. I feel persecuted. She's also convinced that the infection is the cause of all my woes. I really, really, really, really hate her for that. Sometimes I want to scream: you're not an expert, you don't know what this is, you don't know how this feels, and you couldn't describe or understand it if your life depended upon it; you suck, so stop pretending to be capable just to hide the fact that you're scared and confused and uneducated!

But mostly, what I do, is sit quietly and not-feel, not-think, not-exist.
It's so much safer that way.