I told myself that I wouldn’t write for the rest of August and that I
would just read instead. But perhaps not writing is what is killing me. I feel
sick and anxious and sad all the time. I feel totally hopeless and desperately
lonely and I have become painfully aware that no one will take care of me
besides me and I’m doing a shitty job. I think this is quite possibly the
darkest hour of my life, even more so than when I was smoking meth out of a light bulb while pregnant with my junkie boyfriend’s baby. I think the reason why is because it hurts so much more this time. So much more has been lost and so much more is at stake. And I feel like a complete human repellent. I feel unlovable, unlikeable, unemployable, and basically worthless in every possible way. I learned what I do that makes people run from me: I say too much, too soon. I am too open and honest about my fucked up life, and it scares people away. But the other interesting thing about my approach to honesty is that it gets me off the hook with most people who should otherwise care (i.e. my parents). I tell them everything I’m doing that’s fucked up and somehow, it minimizes it. Perhaps I am a master of manipulation? But even so, it doesn’t help me to make friends or get jobs. The only people who seem to like me are the drug addicts, drug dealers, and men wanting to pay me for sex. The only people who can deal with how fucked up I am are those who are just as fucked up or worse. All the normal people—the cool people—can’t handle my chaos. I want to die. I feel so useless, so futureless. I see no point. If I can’t keep friends, get a decent job, and find a nice guy to love me, then what else is there? I can’t even take my road trip now because I can’t get a fucking job to save the money for it. And at this point, considering the way things seem to go for me, I’m afraid to apply to grad school. I’m so mad that I started drinking again, that I let HAM lead me into the sewer. Now everything is great for him and totally fucked for me. The only thing that makes the pounding ache in my chest dissipate is alcohol and meth. Especially meth. I am mad at HAM for his contribution to my demise, mad at myself for playing the biggest part in it, and fucking mad at the guy who took advantage of me and then fucked with my mind and
left me so confused and sad. I’m mad at the system for allowing terrible things to happen to women, I’m mad at all of humankind for being the way that we are, for not changing our beliefs into actions that bring us closer together rather than distance and hate. I’m mad at every man I’ve ever loved. I’m mad at my parents for not giving a shit when I tell them I’m an alcoholic and that I’m doing meth. I’m mad that I don’t have a support system, that I’m not as good of a writer as I want to be, that I spent so many years fucking off instead of doing anything worthwhile, that I’m doing the same fucking off again now, that no one loves me and no one ever has, that I am completely alone in this world with no one to get my back. That I’m fucking a Mexican drug dealer who has “Trust no bitch” tattooed on his arm. That the only “friend” I have that wants to be there to support me also wants me to suck his cock. I hate my life, past, present, future, I hate it. Why is life so fucked up and so hard? I got sober for ALL, that’s why life still sucks. If I had gotten sober for me, I’d probably still be sober today. But I did it for a man, just like I do everything in my life. That’s why I started drinking with HAM, because the relationship was more important than staying clean. And now I’m in a hole again. And I don’t even know if I have the energy or desire to climb back out. I think that if I don’t go to inpatient rehab, I might not be able to just stop. I feel such a lack of control. Of my body, my mind, my heart, my life. I feel so powerless. I can’t stop the feelings without drugs. I used to be able to just shut down emotionally, but it’s like the faucet is on and the knob is broke and I’m just gushing. What is the cure for a broken faucet? I guess you have to go deep—get to the source of the problem—into the plumbing. Fix the pipes before you fix the leak. Whatever that means. Speaking of pipes, cholo is on his way here with a pipe and a bag for me. I am fucked. I am desperate for someone to rescue me because I’m feeling like I can’t do it myself anymore.
would just read instead. But perhaps not writing is what is killing me. I feel
sick and anxious and sad all the time. I feel totally hopeless and desperately
lonely and I have become painfully aware that no one will take care of me
besides me and I’m doing a shitty job. I think this is quite possibly the
darkest hour of my life, even more so than when I was smoking meth out of a light bulb while pregnant with my junkie boyfriend’s baby. I think the reason why is because it hurts so much more this time. So much more has been lost and so much more is at stake. And I feel like a complete human repellent. I feel unlovable, unlikeable, unemployable, and basically worthless in every possible way. I learned what I do that makes people run from me: I say too much, too soon. I am too open and honest about my fucked up life, and it scares people away. But the other interesting thing about my approach to honesty is that it gets me off the hook with most people who should otherwise care (i.e. my parents). I tell them everything I’m doing that’s fucked up and somehow, it minimizes it. Perhaps I am a master of manipulation? But even so, it doesn’t help me to make friends or get jobs. The only people who seem to like me are the drug addicts, drug dealers, and men wanting to pay me for sex. The only people who can deal with how fucked up I am are those who are just as fucked up or worse. All the normal people—the cool people—can’t handle my chaos. I want to die. I feel so useless, so futureless. I see no point. If I can’t keep friends, get a decent job, and find a nice guy to love me, then what else is there? I can’t even take my road trip now because I can’t get a fucking job to save the money for it. And at this point, considering the way things seem to go for me, I’m afraid to apply to grad school. I’m so mad that I started drinking again, that I let HAM lead me into the sewer. Now everything is great for him and totally fucked for me. The only thing that makes the pounding ache in my chest dissipate is alcohol and meth. Especially meth. I am mad at HAM for his contribution to my demise, mad at myself for playing the biggest part in it, and fucking mad at the guy who took advantage of me and then fucked with my mind and
left me so confused and sad. I’m mad at the system for allowing terrible things to happen to women, I’m mad at all of humankind for being the way that we are, for not changing our beliefs into actions that bring us closer together rather than distance and hate. I’m mad at every man I’ve ever loved. I’m mad at my parents for not giving a shit when I tell them I’m an alcoholic and that I’m doing meth. I’m mad that I don’t have a support system, that I’m not as good of a writer as I want to be, that I spent so many years fucking off instead of doing anything worthwhile, that I’m doing the same fucking off again now, that no one loves me and no one ever has, that I am completely alone in this world with no one to get my back. That I’m fucking a Mexican drug dealer who has “Trust no bitch” tattooed on his arm. That the only “friend” I have that wants to be there to support me also wants me to suck his cock. I hate my life, past, present, future, I hate it. Why is life so fucked up and so hard? I got sober for ALL, that’s why life still sucks. If I had gotten sober for me, I’d probably still be sober today. But I did it for a man, just like I do everything in my life. That’s why I started drinking with HAM, because the relationship was more important than staying clean. And now I’m in a hole again. And I don’t even know if I have the energy or desire to climb back out. I think that if I don’t go to inpatient rehab, I might not be able to just stop. I feel such a lack of control. Of my body, my mind, my heart, my life. I feel so powerless. I can’t stop the feelings without drugs. I used to be able to just shut down emotionally, but it’s like the faucet is on and the knob is broke and I’m just gushing. What is the cure for a broken faucet? I guess you have to go deep—get to the source of the problem—into the plumbing. Fix the pipes before you fix the leak. Whatever that means. Speaking of pipes, cholo is on his way here with a pipe and a bag for me. I am fucked. I am desperate for someone to rescue me because I’m feeling like I can’t do it myself anymore.
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