Rotting

I'm growing antsy in my own skin.
Everything is itchy and too tight and too uncomfortable.
There's a frightening awareness of how fucked up my life is that keeps popping up whenever I try to sleep.
My shit was supposed to be put together by now.
Still don't have my drivers license.
I have yet to apply for jobs or register for spring classes.
The portfolio that is essential for me to get into art school has been collecting dust for three years.
My hands are shaking.
Anxious doesn't even being to describe how I feel.
There's a heavy weight of shame and guilt that sits on my shoulders.
It's unshakable and I'm beginning to think I will be saddled with this dread for the rest of my existence.
This is an entirely unpleasant life I'm leading here.
Getting out of bed shouldn't be such a feat and I should have higher standards by which to judge my stability.
What stability do I really have though?
Sure I'm not vomiting everyday and I've been showering regularly but staying in your room for six days isn't living.
None of what I do can be considered living actually.
I've been rereading Wasted whenever my head gets too small to contain my self loathing.
Don't know how I got it in my head that reading the book that contains all my shame and insecurities could possibly be therapeutic but that doesn't exactly stop me from scribbling in the already full margins.
I think I'm losing the only person in my life who matters and I'm trying to pretend it doesn't make me want to die.
But I'm going to focus on the things that I can control right now so I'll pop a diet pill and make myself  tea.
Maybe I'll have another cigarette too.
I miss Lukas so much it's hard to breathe.
Not that my lungs ever worked well to begin with.