Whiney, hyperbolic, stupidly suicidal rant

There is something seriously wrong with me. I don't really care if that sounds like hyperbole, and yet I do. And therein lies the problem.

The past month has been a menagerie of financial crisis, love lost, love gained, what looks to be love lost again, losing my home, losing my great-grandma, spending a rediculously short amount of time with my family for christmas, having my job put into jeprody, losing family heirlooms, working rediculously long hours and having no respite whatsoever.

I'm fine.

I'm not fine. I know I'm not fine. Why won't anything break me? Why can I keep going and keep going and not feel any pain? I don't understand!

The worst bit is that if you don't break easily people think you are coping. I can't stand people thinking that. I don't want someone reasonably telling me what I should do or how they had the same experience once. I'm sick of the fact that if you heap too many complaints on someone at once they ignore you as if you're just bitching about little things and thus are no longer worthy of their attention.

I want someone to hug me, tell me it will be ok, and take some of the strain and stress away from me. Yet I feel too guilty and unworthy of that priviledge.

If I did what I wanted to do right now I would cut my entire body to ribbons and stagger to a hospital. Every inch of my body would be covered in blood and scars. I would get on the bus and sit in St Mary's waiting room and look at the scorn in the nurse's faces as they admitted me and smile because I would know that was nothing compared to what I was coming from.

But my mind tells me, if you did that you wouldn't be able to pay rent, and as such all of your posessions would be put on the street where people would steal them. Your friends would be gone and your family is too poor to visit you, you would be alone even more than you are now. You wouldn't be able to go anywhere or see anyone. This is also true of right now, but it would be worse as the illusion that it is possible would also be gone. They would put you on meds and expect you to talk to someone about your problems, and you can't do that. You just cant, physically, do that.

And then people would of course ask: Why go directly to hospital? Because I don't want to die. I want the outside of my body to even slightly resemble the inside of my mind. I want someone, anyone, to recognise that I'm not better from before. The only thing I have done is grow up and get a guilt complex meaning that no one can or will if the current trend continues, see what is on the inside. It's hidden well.

WHY WON'T I BREAK?