Falling Fast.

Anxiety has gotten the better of me.

I can't do anything anymore without freaking the fuck out.

Haven't gone to my only class on campus yet.

Can't work unless I have a little doodle pad to scribble on to distract myself from the present.

Can't look people in the eye.

Tapping out of the sorority thing.

Can't talk.

Can't go outside.

UGHHH. I fucking hate it. I hate anxiety. I hate the fucking word anxiety. It spills out of my mouth representing everything it is. Reading it sends shivers down my spine, and my heart takes a leap.

I'm getting my little mini panic attacks again.

I can never fucking sleep.

I can never fucking wake up.

Just waiting for my hair to fall out again I suppose, and for that cold piece of metal to bring out some warmth from within.

I'm just waiting now, because I know it's coming. Over the horizon, it's a comin'.

I can't go home for Thanksgiving because, work.
I can't go home for reading break because, work.
I can't go home for Christmas because of fucking work.

But I need a god damn job. Because I need money. Because I need gas so I can drive around at night. Because I need more clothes because I'm collapsing with myself, yet somehow looking bigger and bigger each day. Because I need smokes to breathe now it seems.

Every time I get in the car, a smoke pops into my mouth.

I need it. I need it because of the stress, the anxiety.

Alcohol? No, no good. I just drink and drink thinking, "I need more! I'm not drunk enough! More, more, more, moreeee!"

Until I'm passed out in the fucking parking lot at three in the morning and some randoms fucking save me.

I'm naive and stupid, and not afraid of death. That's the problem.

On another note, I'm still losing weight. Slowlyyyyy. I'm too lazy to cook, and only have time for coffee and smokes really. On an average day now I'll just have dinner. Which is good in my eyes.

Blah, I don't want to be here. But at the same time, I don't actually want to be anywhere. I wish for sleep, and it doesn't even come.

- Mint.