reasons to care.

i write because i have no idea what else i can do to make this stop.

to be honest, i'm not even sure what to put here. the only thing i do know is, writing has to be better than downing half a bottle of xannax.

i'm fraught with frustration. frustrated at sleeping alone again. frustrated at pricks who are supposed to know the mind, yet can't seem to stop being an asshole. frustrated by my own inadequacies physically.

yesterday, i got out of the shower and simply cried. because it hurt. few of you know i have a genetic thing that gives me 5 different kinds of skin conditions. the reason u only see my face and tits in pictures is because the rest is covered in scars. right now, its bad and just soap and water burn. the medicine has alcohol in it, so it burns more. my entire body on fire and every joint i flex, more pain as the skin splits and cracks. i cried more for the fact that its been 11 years of this, than the physical pain.

the physical i have gotten used to. its the knowing i'll never wear shorts with out tights or sox, the experience of my skin sticking to whatever its on and ripping off when i stand or move. the knowing that for the rest of my life, it will hurt just to use my hands, that cooking, creating, everything i love will hurt. and that there will be times i can't even do that. and the best part is there's nothing to be done. they can treat it, but not cure it. they can keep it at bay with strong meds that fuck my mood, my head, my heart, and my weight all up. they can give me temp relief by doing a series of 40-80 injections, placing cortisone under each sore; but that hurts almost as much as the sore itself.

i'm finding it harder and harder to pick myself back up. and whats really funny?

the reason i'm ranting was talking to a 'friend' that's got a degree in psychology and he did nothing but provoke, argue and fuck with me. i was so frustrated that someone supposedly so smart could be such a dumbass. he has that lil piece of paper that i dont, the one saying he's smart, the degree. yet, he's so blind and listens so little, he hurts the very kind of people that he's supposed to one day help. then wanders why women dont like him. sigh.

i dont get it. and i dont really feel like trying. that's why i write. because otherwise i'd be forced to call someone and explain all this. then they would get all upset because i sound suicidal and blah blah blah. it becomes more of a hassle than a help. so i write that i hurt. i write that i can't stop it and i write that i'm not sure i give a shit anymore. the only reason i hold on is for the family that loves me. because it would break their hearts. outside of that. i'm devoid of reason anymore. i need a reason to care.

i need a reason to care, even though caring leads to more hurt.... that's life?