A vent chapter.
TW: addiction, depressing themes, suicide
Tell me why
Don't return to this under any circumstances. Nothing is worth going back to it. Any part of your mind that tells you this is something worth looking at is sick.
I'm laying in the dark. It's hot but it's also cold sometimes. I think I'm sweating. I might be shaking but I can't tell. I think my heart is racing but I can't feel it.
I am hallucinating. I am in bed holding my favorite plush. Don't go back to this, if you do anything in life, don't go back to this.
Talk to the you who is scared to relive this. Talk to me. Talk to the you who is scared before I am anything. Talk to the you who isn't making any sense.
Anything that tells you this make sense is lying to you.
Rambles
I was too high to write about it, thoughts unable to connect themselves or string together. Too high to interact with anything.
I laid in the dark, doing nothing, saying nothing, being nothing.
I told my family I'd go to rehab, I had this strange sense that I was watching my body say something I wasn't saying myself, observing something outside of myself speak for me.
I've been sobering up for the past few days, asleep mostly, feeling sick and panicky with blurry vision. I remember waiting and waiting until it was out of my system. I'd like to do it a little bit more, just one last time around, but that will not give me what I am looking for.
I don't know where I rest. Sometimes I have some semblance of hope, some idea that today I will be sober and tomorrow will come. Often I think to myself that if this is how it goes, why fight it? If I am going to choke on my vomit in the end, what should stop me from going out and finding something until I inevitably do.
Every task feels like a painful set of moments until it is over and I can lay in bed again. Small things that used to mean everything now feel as if they require more energy than I have.
I have to sit with the people I pushed out. Someone asked me if I love the people in my life more than I love getting high, I told her she shouldn't ask questions like that.
I hope things start to make sense soon.
If only you loved me like you loved getting high
I can think of hundreds of little things I adore, many tiny moments I hold close so close to my chest that they feel my heartbeat.
I love my family, my passionate mother, my kindhearted father, my sunny sister, my wise older sister. I love them more than I love any human beings I've ever met.
I love my boyfriend, our little conversations, the small things he tells me about himself, his kind words.
I love my friends, their funny jokes, our conversations full of laughter, late night rambles, and our little ways of saying "I adore you."
I love writing, using different words to capture the beautiful and ugly, reading poems, writing poems, integrating them into any area of my life that I can.
I love working towards a future that means something, putting hours into a textbook, working my first job, trying to become someone better for tomorrow.
I love the little things, the stuffed toys, the death cab for cutie lyrics, the poetry book with half the stanzas underlined.
With a bag or bottle in hand it all seems to be washed away, I love you, until, until, until.
It immediately takes first place above anything else.
I find myself spending days laying in a dark room doing nothing, saying nothing, talking to no one.
You'll have to go, everyone will have to go. Nothing will get written. No one will want to talk with me when I get like this, it is instantly chosen over everything.
Writing
You write every day, anything that has been lived through in the past few years has been told in a story or two.
You write about every aspect of your life, the beautiful and the ugly, every moment is a story to be told, life containing many metaphors within itself.
You find writing inspiration in music, at the thrift store, in the things you do, in the people you know.
So you tried to write and the lines barely came, you found yourself too high to think of anything to say.
You wrote everyday for years, this was who you are, and for almost a week you cannot bring a line out of you.
Writing has been your sanctuary, a treehouse to stay in when the world doesn't make sense, so when you find yourself with nothing to say it tells you something within you is hurting.
Defining
It feels like a defeat larger than words can capture.
I think of the many AA meetings, the 12 step work, the rehab stays, I wanted this.
I still found my way back to it, and it feels like I am leaking out of my body.
I'll do it even if you leave. I'll do it even if nothing else gets done. I'll do it even if it will kill me.
I live with the odd knowledge that this is not worth fighting for, that this fills nothing within me, the high doesn't mean anything, it's a senseless pattern that reinforces itself endlessly.
It feels so overarching and defining, like I am this before I am anything or anyone.
Verbose and rambling
I'm convinced the high isn't even that good, it can't be.
The pattern reinforces itself but that doesn't mean it does rationally.
I'm unable to do anything but this, unable to be anything but this, this is not worth fighting for.
I get drunk and I give you my bags and bottles. I get high and I realize all over again why I don't want to live like this.
I have been asleep at all hours, asleep at 10PM, waking up at 8PM, asleep at 9AM, I'd rather not be awake for all of this.
I want to die, if I could take a pill that would get me there I would. I would chew it and feel its taste on my tongue.
I don't want to think anymore. I don't want to do all the little things I have to do in a day. I don't want to get high or choose not to. I want to choke on my vomit and realize nothing is left after this, no rebirths, no second chances, I just want quiet.
