Life is a like an Amusement Park

I've come to notice that now: it seems like everything in the world has a parallel in that ever so fun place. "Life is like a roller coaster," things swing back and forth, go round and round, you fight your way to the top trying to get that prize. And we all get fat on funnel cakes, hot dogs, and cotton candy. How freaking perfect.
I feel like I've been on this huge up-swing, and I'm about to come whizzing down ridiculously fast. And it feels like I'm heading towards a brick wall.
I woke up feeling sick today. Yes, physically, but it's the kind of sick that comes with anticipation, and I don't mean the good kind. The kind of sick that comes before a potentially life-changing performance of some kind, and you suddenly realized that you know nothing at all. That it was all a dream.
I don't know what to do anymore. About anything. It seems so retarded: I should be fine. But I'm not. I'm not even sure I want to be anymore, because when things are already bad, it's like you don't have to worry about it too much. I got used to having that bad stuff there. I grew accustomed to it; it even provided me with some modicum of peace, safety, security. Getting better, being fine, means I'm at risk of being happy, and then losing it all. And at this point, I think I would rather live my life a little screwed up, a little broken, than constantly waiting for it all to fall apart. Or even worse, expecting it to last, and being proven wrong.
I know I shouldn't want to weigh 89 pounds anymore. So I convince myself that I don't really want that. But in all truth, I wouldn't mind. I would be ecstatic to weigh that much again. To get rid of all this fat that covers my body. To have control of one thing: I can't fix how broken I am on the inside, but maybe I could fix it on the outside.
I still think about hurting myself. Whether it's cutting or burning, I don't give a damn. Today I was making a baked potato (again), and I touched the pan it was lying on, and simply didn't let go for a couple of seconds, even though I could feel it melting my skin. Funny how hurting yourself makes you feel better.
I stopped taking Midol for my cramps. It started out as three, then four, then five, and I could see where it was going.
I still think about killing myself.
It's not even that I'm particularly miserable. This is just how my life is now, this is what I'm used to. I hate change, and as much as I don't really like where I'm at, I'm comfortable with it. If things change, I keep expecting them to get better. And it seems like they never do. Like nothing ever does.
It's times like these that I hate the fact that there are people that care about me. David was right: guilt sucks ass.
I don't even have the drugs or alcohol I used to have to make me feel a little better, or at least, a little more ambivalent. I'm so tired of slowly wasting away from the inside out. I seemed to have convinced damn near everybody that I'm fine. I almost convinced myself that I was fine. I almost had myself believing my own lie, looking no further than the mask I don every morning. I was so close.
Then David had to come back into the picture. As much as I love him, and as much as I know I would have had to face myself sooner or later, I wish it could have been later. Part of me hates how understanding he is, how my soul, sometimes against my will, reaches out to him, and hands him pieces of myself. It scares the hell out of me. And as much as he says he will be there, I know nothing but betrayal and abandonment. I want to believe him so badly, but it's like believing him means that I'm admitting a lot of things. A lot of things parts of me would rather have kept denying.
I'm so lost. I don't know what to do. I don't want to care what happens to me- part of me doesn't. I don't want to feel anymore. Things, people, loss: it all hurts in one way or another. I'm tired of it.
For some reason, it feels like there's another big blow coming. I can't freaking wait.
I almost wish it would kill me.
-------------------------------------------------------------
Rotten

Deluded by your
illusions of grandeur,
you picked me from
the peach tree.
I was perfectly flawed,
you said, with
a pristine wormhole
and a leaf that was
slightly askew,
but a skin that was
immaculate in
every way.
You didn't know it
then, but I was secretly
rotting, from the
inside out.
And when you went
to finally take a bite,
you found me bitter,
brown, and decayed.
Picking away,
you hoped to discover
something salvageable,
but were denied.
Instead of a pit
you could have planted
and nourished
and helped to grow,
there was nothing.
A hole, dark and
lonely, where the
pit should have been-
the heart of the fruit,
although it seemed as if
it had never even been there.
Bereft, you sat staring
at the empty spot, and
weren't even surprised
when the flesh turned to
ashes, then dust
and swirled away in the
autumn breeze.
And all you were
left with was a
broken memory.