Waiting makes me want to gouge my eyes out

There’s this lingering feeling, like a naw of loneliness, that I felt someone slipped in my drink a couple years ago, when I was fifteen in fact, even though I didn’t drink at fifteen.

But I’m sure I’ve downed some poison, some pill or potion, because ever since then I hadn’t been the same.

I think I’ve been cursed with the illness of waiting. Waiting for me feels insufferable. Waiting makes me want to tear my skin open, makes me want to eat nails. It’s the sound of metal on chalkboard times ten, it consumes me, like I’m on fire.

Fuck it, you know?

I just, I feel stuck. And I’m so done with waiting, waiting for something to happen, anything. And no matter what happens in my life, like someone loves me! Seriously! Someone loves me. He gave me a lovely rose last month, with petals red as my lipstick, but still, still this feeling remains simmering in my stomach.

I feel it physically, like it’s in my core and I want to gouge it out, this feeling of sadness, this hatred of The Wait. I feel like twisting my guts just so I can vomit it out.

But it stays! It stays. Sometimes, I forget it exists. Sometimes, things are fine. Like when I am in love and when he gave me that rose and all I could think about was the gentleness of his hold on my hand, the warmth of his soul.

I didn’t feel this hatred of The Wait then.

But some days, it tears me up. It wraps around me, it makes me want to die even though I know I don’t. I mean, the process sounds painful, and I am NOT a fan of painful.

Anyway, I don’t know how I’ll survive the next decades, the next centuries (perhaps I am an immortal), but I guess we’ll wait and see.