"For a Walking Corpse Like Me"

Lately, I've caught myself falling back into the same old place I always let myself end up when my life starts coming together; I've avoided really talking about it with anyone for the whole week. The only reason my housemate even knows is because she lives with me and it's a little hard to hide the fact that I haven't left the apartment since church on Sunday from her. Not that she's really here often enough to notice. But that's beside the point.

I stopped caring again. Not about everything, I still care about my brother and everything going on with him; I still care about my friends and the drama in their lives; I even care--probably too much--about the characters in my favorite books and shows. But I stopped caring about me. All week, I've had issues getting to sleep: I'd go to bed around 12 or 1 am, stare at the wall or the ceiling for an hour, read something on my computer for another hour, try to sleep again, and consider myself lucky if I was passed out by 4am. This meant that I probably didn't get up until 11am or later.

There were times, especially in the past 24hours, where I really wished that I could just walk outside, hit up a 99cent store, buy a bunch of crap I don't need, and tell all my friends to deal with it because I was coping. And maybe I could have. But I didn't. Instead, I sat on my couch and ignored texts from a friend of mine because I knew I'd end up telling him everything without really thinking about it. And then people would worry. And I hate when people worry about me. I don't see the point.

What I find to be the weirdest part of this whole week of self-deprecation is the lack of logical emotion I've been able to show. My friends tell me that such-and-such is happening in their lives, and I'm concerned or angry or what have you....but I'm also bored. Within minutes of the conversation starting, I'm bored with the whole thing. Yes, I'm aware that this is probably not normal.

The only other sign of basic emotion I've shown, besides near-psychotic giggling over TV show situations, has happened at night while I attempt to reach something even slightly akin to sleep. I lay in my bed, I start relaxing my body bit by bit, I picture my happy place where it's calm and pretty and peaceful and all I hear are wind chimes, I hold the stuffed cat I've had since I was born, and...I cry.

Yep, I cry. Last night I was sobbing. And you want to know why? What on this earth finally made me show some sign of real life?

That stuffed cat.

Mmhmm. I hold Kitty to my chest, just under my chin, and I try to remember the song that she used to play when I was little and I'd push the button in her paw because I was upset... But I can't remember how the song goes.

So I cried.

And I didn't tell anyone what was going on.

Because I don't know if I want them to care.

Because I don't.