there's plenty of space to hang my stuff but there's no where to hang myself in this room

So my mindset jumped back a couple paces. Back to self criticism. Hooray.

Everyone seems to think at some point or other that every single syllable escaping my lips means fuck all. I'm just blathering shit again. Shut up Becky, you're wrong. You're wrong, your points aren't valid, your statements are incomplete. Shut up. SHUT THE FUCK UP.

Sometimes I contemplate taking a vow of silence so no one will have to listen to my shit ever again.

If my words don't mean anything to you then why the fuck am I still spouting a cacophony of verbs and nouns and adjectives that clutter up your neat little sentences and make me trip over my tongue and smash my face into your fucking stolid, immovable wall of reason and sense and patronising fucking remarks that I come face to face with every single time I try and say something that in the long run doesn't even matter. Why do I keep doing this to myself? I'm better off staying quiet.

And then self deprecation and doubt and loathing for myself swamps me and I get that buzzing by my temples that tells me I really need to just b r e a t h e and calm down but I can't. I scrunch my hands into fists until they look like the bones are going to burst through my skin and rant to myself like I have a fucking multiple personality disorder for like ten minutes.

Oh shut up Becky.

You're a fucking imbecile you know that.

Shut up.