I feel so ugly. I feel so powerless and dull and self-destructive. And stupid. Less than a person. No wonder I'm single. No wonder. I fake all the time. I fake being happy. I fake confidence. Because it makes it better, so my life isn't a complete nightmare. But I'm losing my grip at the moment. I can't seem to persuade myself. I fill my time with displacement activities. Smoking. Watching telly. Watching DVD's. Reading. I can't seem to help myself. I list in my head things I need to do. But it's barely more than I can do to get out of bed. Showering. Brushing my teeth morning and night. Making myself food. Wearing clean clothes. That's about as much as I manage. Going to see A Midsummers Nights Dream in the park. Going to the pub quiz. Cooking for B* and D**. Picking up teabags for T and T* because I always have a cup of tea when I go round there. Making it to N****s birthday meal - when others don't. I can manage to do things for my friends. By all appearences I'm holding things together. But I can feel they're not. Changing my sheets regularly, never having a bare mattress. Doing facemasks twice a week. At least I'm not a stoner anymore. If this down had hit while I still was I would have managed to lose my job. As it is I know I've been late a few times. It hasn't been picked up on yet. But what am I fucking doing getting taxi's to work? I've managed to get up in time. But I just can't bring myself to leave the house. Must blow dry my fringe. Must cover up fucking skin. My god. I cried at a cancer research advert earlier today. And I'm not pre-menstrual. I did 25 sit ups. Whoopdy fucking do. I did the washing up. I emptied my bathroom bin. I got dressed long enough to go to the shop and get rizlas. Which is an improvement on yesterday when I thought about having a cigarette for four hours but didn't go to the shop to get tobacco until 5pm even though it's across the fucking road.