So I’ve been back to work for a week now. And I can feel my dear old anxiety crawling along my skin in its dear old ways. Sometimes I manage to put it at the back of my mind, but still, just the idea of my trying to ignore it tends to make it even more prominent. It’s getting annoying. Maybe I have been smoking too much, drinking too much coffee, hating too much.
Bah.
It’s sickening, really. There’s this feeling of doom inside me I can’t get rid of. Like how I’ll fuck up at work. Say the wrong things to some people. Climb the stairs to the rooftop of my office building that I discovered only last night. 13th floor. How apt. It’s what I see when I gaze up from the smoking area, trying to imagine how loud a splat one fall from such a height could make. Ugh. Disgusting. I’ve never really considered such an end. I’d feel horribly guilty toward the unfortunate person who would scrape my remains from the concrete floor. Same as jumping in front of a train. Or lorry. Even just by hanging… how awful it would be for the person who would find me. I live alone so it would probably be days before someone finds me and my body would have been unrecognizable. Bloated? Moldy? Lol I dunno. It’ll definitely smell horrendous. It’s so inconvenient knowing one way or another someone’s going to experience trauma in cleaning me off whatever mess I’d end up in. The gore. The stench. Are there professionals for such things?
It’s a little funny how morbid I am these days. But it’s not that I want to die, fuck, pain scares me. I’d just like to disappear, really. Teleport into nothingness.
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