Because it seems relevant.

“The Life Beyond” – Rupert Brooke (1910)

He wakes, who never thought to wake again,
Who held the end was Death. He opens eyes
Slowly, to one long livid oozing plain
Closed down by the strange eyeless heavens. He lies;
And waits; and once in timeless sick surmise
Through the dead air heaves up an unknown hand,
Like a dry branch. No life is in that land,
Himself not lives, but is a thing that cries;
An unmeaning point upon the mud; a speck
Of moveless horror; an Immortal One
Cleansed of the world, sentient and dead; a fly
Fast-stuck in grey sweat on a corpse’s neck.

I thought when love for you died, I should die.
It’s dead. Alone, most strangely, I live on.

–

I can’t for the life of me remember exactly what it was that I was supposed to be writing on. My role in the family, I think. But that role, now that I consider, breaks down to almost nothing. I can stand in between two people for as long as I like, but that doesn’t change how they act. It also doesn’t mean my efforts will be appreciated.

This was a very depressing week.

I have a friend who has no other friends, not really, and she’s pregnant and she thought she could depend on me to be there for her. I saw her in November, and then that was that. I don’t pick up my phone. It’s probably (definitely) selfish to ignore a person simply because you think you have enough problems as it is, but that’s what I did and what I’m doing. She calls almost every day, but I never pick up. It’s enormously easier to not pick up the phone now than it was a few months ago, a week ago, a few days ago.
My main goal in life is to live alone just so I don’t have to deal with anyone. I want to live in an apartment with two bedrooms so I can have an office with a futon. I’ll have a nice bed in my room, but I’ll mostly sleep on the office futon. That seems like happiness to me, but I don’t think that it should.

I haven’t been sleeping much lately because whenever I lay down I spend an hour or so tossing and turning and thinking stupid thoughts about stupid things that I did, or times that I should have done something or said something but didn’t, or times that I really wish I’d been any where but where I was.

But I never cry about anything. I measure it, now. I cry about once a year. In 2009, I cried on my birthday in my dorm room with the door locked and my music on high because crying is stupid and I might have been drinking a little. It was rum and it was a gift from a friend I’d made, and it was the first gift I’d gotten from someone (a friend!) outside of my family since 2005. She wanted us to watch a movie or do something together, but I told her I had homework so maybe next time, and then I went to my dorm and did nothing, no homework or anything.

I don’t drink anymore now, and that was certainly a rare moment for me even then. And I’m not as sad as all this might make it seem. It’s more that I’m pretty pleased some of the time and then pleasantly numb the rest of the time. I get angry, but I don’t fight with anyone anymore really because I have more self control than I did back then, before.

I was asked to write about things we talked about, and I think this covers it. I don’t remember all of it, and I may or may not be willing to discuss all of it. My brother is another issue entirely and I can’t write that, let alone talk. Thinking is even too much.

On the other hand, I’ve been utilizing my DBT skills at night. It’s working out all right.

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