I Don't Really Wanna Be The Queen

Relapse is a scary thing. You take drugs, you think that you are in control, but you are not. You go to the familiar places, see the same old faces, you shake, you shiver, you're cold, you're hot, your nose runs, your breath is short. You spend money that could be better spent on something else. Relapse does this to a person. Relapse does a lot of things to a person, least of all throws them off the straight and narrow path.

The sores come back a few days after you start using again. Sores that you had healed up. They start out as itchy blisters, but you pop them when you scratch them. They itch so badly. They don't bleed when they are popped, they ooze a clear pus-like liquid. Plasma. Your body is so desperately trying to fight off the infection, the injury. But it's a losing battle.

You keep at it. You hurt yourself. Not just physically. You are mentally hurting. That's why you tie off your arm, and the arm of your companion. That's why you share a needle. That's why you mix up the morphine and inject it without a second thought. That's why you're in the mess that you're in. Emotion sickness. You self medicate because you're too embarrassed to get help. You want it now, not in six to eight weeks when your anti-depressant kicks in. Alcohol and drugs give you that calming medicated feeling. They chase away your emotions. You feel nothing and nothing feels like nirvana compared to where you were before.

I relapsed. I did morphine earlier this afternoon with my husband's guitarist. I provided the morphine, I was the one who administered it. I am ashamed and saddened that I did this. I am tired from the morphine. I am sleepy. I want to just lay down and not wake up. I am forgetful. I took three insulin shots tonight because I couldn't remember which bottle of insulin I had just taken. I want to be clean.

I crave to be clean. I wanted to give that to Dennis for his birthday next week, but I failed. I have no one to blame but myself. I wanted to get high. I was hurting, emotionally. I felt like Dennis did not love me. I felt like I failed my children, as if they would be better off with another mother. After shooting up, I knew all of that was true. I know if I don't give up drugs, Dennis will leave me. I can't make it without him. I can't make it on my own. I cannot drive. I cannot find the courage to put down the needles, the pills.

To make a sad story sadder, I took three pills just a few minutes ago. I cannot help myself. My doctor wasn't kidding when he said that I needed help. I just can't do it. Is there a drug to cure drug addictions? If so, where can I buy it? I don't want to deal with doctors, cops, nurses. I want to help myself. I'm sure that if I can help myself, I will get better. But I need that push. That extra push to get clean.

Relapsing has made me feel worthless. I want to scream at myself. I want to punish myself. I did it because I am in a rut, and I paid dearly for it. I got sores on my hand, near where I shot up. They were blisters that itched and drove me crazy. I felt like I was jumping out of my skin. My arms felt like they were made out of rubber. Nothing felt right. I didn't get the wonderful high that I wanted. I felt like shit for an hour afterwards. My husband's guitarist didn't make a pass at me, but he let me lean against him as the morphine raced through our blood streams. Giving me access to clean needles was a mistake my doctor made. I feel that shooting up is something that I can do at leisure now. It's okay, it's safe now. There's no way I can get any blood-born pathogens if I use a clean needle every time.

It's not safe when I buy. There is always a chance that Byron will kick my ass again. He has beaten me up twice in our relationship of customer/dealer. There were times when  he demanded sex instead of money. He takes advantage of me. I let him. If I were a stronger person, I could walk away from this all. I could walk away from Byron when he's about to rape me, or demand that I suck his dick. I wouldn't need anything that he sells. I wouldn't come on to my husband's guitarist, his best friend, offer him sex while high. I wouldn't have pressured him into screwing me. I wouldn't have offered to suck his dick.

But these things happened.

I did them.

I did them all.

And because of that, I am an unfit mother. I am someone who doesn't deserve to have her children, her job, her husband. I want to associate with gutter trash? I should be in the gutter. It's just that simple.

I want to be a slut who will sleep with anyone who has a hit or two on them? I should become a prostitute and just screw men to get high and give me twenty bucks at a time for food and shelter. Live in motels. Never mind where I came from or who I am.

The reality of it all is that I am not this person. I do not deserve to live the life of an addict.

Yet here I sit with tears running down my cheeks, wondering what the hell happened to me. I was not like this when I was younger. I hate who I secretly have become. I have become the slut, the addict, in a rut with emotion sickness that is slowly killing me.

And I don't know what to do.

Relapse is a scary thing. You take drugs, you think that you are in control, but you are not. You go to the familiar places, see the same old faces, you shake, you shiver, you're cold, you're hot, your nose runs, your breath is short. You spend money that could be better spent on something else. Relapse does this to a person. Relapse does a lot of things to a person, least of all throws them off the straight and narrow path.

The sores come back a few days after you start using again. Sores that you had healed up. They start out as itchy blisters, but you pop them when you scratch them. They itch so badly. They don't bleed when they are popped, they ooze a clear pus-like liquid. Plasma. Your body is so desperately trying to fight off the infection, the injury. But it's a losing battle.

You keep at it. You hurt yourself. Not just physically. You are mentally hurting. That's why you tie off your arm, and the arm of your companion. That's why you share a needle. That's why you mix up the morphine and inject it without a second thought. That's why you're in the mess that you're in. Emotion sickness. You self medicate because you're too embarrassed to get help. You want it now, not in six to eight weeks when your anti-depressant kicks in. Alcohol and drugs give you that calming medicated feeling. They chase away your emotions. You feel nothing and nothing feels like nirvana compared to where you were before.

I relapsed. I did morphine earlier this afternoon with my husband's guitarist. I provided the morphine, I was the one who administered it. I am ashamed and saddened that I did this. I am tired from the morphine. I am sleepy. I want to just lay down and not wake up. I am forgetful. I took three insulin shots tonight because I couldn't remember which bottle of insulin I had just taken. I want to be clean.

I crave to be clean. I wanted to give that to Dennis for his birthday next week, but I failed. I have no one to blame but myself. I wanted to get high. I was hurting, emotionally. I felt like Dennis did not love me. I felt like I failed my children, as if they would be better off with another mother. After shooting up, I knew all of that was true. I know if I don't give up drugs, Dennis will leave me. I can't make it without him. I can't make it on my own. I cannot drive. I cannot find the courage to put down the needles, the pills.

To make a sad story sadder, I took three pills just a few minutes ago. I cannot help myself. My doctor wasn't kidding when he said that I needed help. I just can't do it. Is there a drug to cure drug addictions? If so, where can I buy it? I don't want to deal with doctors, cops, nurses. I want to help myself. I'm sure that if I can help myself, I will get better. But I need that push. That extra push to get clean.

Relapsing has made me feel worthless. I want to scream at myself. I want to punish myself. I did it because I am in a rut, and I paid dearly for it. I got sores on my hand, near where I shot up. They were blisters that itched and drove me crazy. I felt like I was jumping out of my skin. My arms felt like they were made out of rubber. Nothing felt right. I didn't get the wonderful high that I wanted. I felt like shit for an hour afterwards. My husband's guitarist didn't make a pass at me, but he let me lean against him as the morphine raced through our blood streams. Giving me access to clean needles was a mistake my doctor made. I feel that shooting up is something that I can do at leisure now. It's okay, it's safe now. There's no way I can get any blood-born pathogens if I use a clean needle every time.

It's not safe when I buy. There is always a chance that Byron will kick my ass again. He has beaten me up twice in our relationship of customer/dealer. There were times when  he demanded sex instead of money. He takes advantage of me. I let him. If I were a stronger person, I could walk away from this all. I could walk away from Byron when he's about to rape me, or demand that I suck his dick. I wouldn't need anything that he sells. I wouldn't come on to my husband's guitarist, his best friend, offer him sex while high. I wouldn't have pressured him into screwing me. I wouldn't have offered to suck his dick.

But these things happened.

I did them.

I did them all.

And because of that, I am an unfit mother. I am someone who doesn't deserve to have her children, her job, her husband. I want to associate with gutter trash? I should be in the gutter. It's just that simple.

I want to be a slut who will sleep with anyone who has a hit or two on them? I should become a prostitute and just screw men to get high and give me twenty bucks at a time for food and shelter. Live in motels. Never mind where I came from or who I am.

The reality of it all is that I am not this person. I do not deserve to live the life of an addict.

Yet here I sit with tears running down my cheeks, wondering what the hell happened to me. I was not like this when I was younger. I hate who I secretly have become. I have become the slut, the addict, in a rut with emotion sickness that is slowly killing me.

And I don't know what to do.

Never Getting Well

I screwed up a couple of times. The last one being last night. I really didn't need a fix, I just wanted to sleep. Sleep doesn't come easy for me. I lay awake at night by the hour with the perfumed candle burning brightly. The candle doesn't bother me, nor does the light from it keep me awake. I usually wake up from bad dreams.

Using, to me, is my way of life. There is no way I can get through this without some form of help. Being on insulin now doesn't help because there are hypos all around.

I felt pretty good when I wasn't using. I was happy. True happiness was a rarity.

I'm happy to say that Dennis didn't fall from grace with me. It was just me. Just my own little problems. Just my own little issues that seem to never be fixed.

Pray for me. I want to kick this. I want to get well. I don't want to be an addict forever. I don't want to struggle with this forever. I want to feel happy all the time, not depressed and vulnerable. Not afraid and weak.

Drugs scare me. Coming off drugs scares me even more. Withdrawal scares me. Maybe some day I won't be so afraid.

I screwed up a couple of times. The last one being last night. I really didn't need a fix, I just wanted to sleep. Sleep doesn't come easy for me. I lay awake at night by the hour with the perfumed candle burning brightly. The candle doesn't bother me, nor does the light from it keep me awake. I usually wake up from bad dreams.

Using, to me, is my way of life. There is no way I can get through this without some form of help. Being on insulin now doesn't help because there are hypos all around.

I felt pretty good when I wasn't using. I was happy. True happiness was a rarity.

I'm happy to say that Dennis didn't fall from grace with me. It was just me. Just my own little problems. Just my own little issues that seem to never be fixed.

Pray for me. I want to kick this. I want to get well. I don't want to be an addict forever. I don't want to struggle with this forever. I want to feel happy all the time, not depressed and vulnerable. Not afraid and weak.

Drugs scare me. Coming off drugs scares me even more. Withdrawal scares me. Maybe some day I won't be so afraid.

Fourteen Years

Today is my oldest daughter's Fourteenth Birthday.

Or it would be, if she were alive.

Poetry Rose died of a barbiturate overdose, just a dose and a half of what was prescribed for her, in the wee hours of the morning on May 20, 2009. She was ten years old.

Suffering from multiple tumors that were causing her severe pain, PoRo's doctor had told her father and I that chemotherapy would just prolong her suffering, and wrote us a prescription for her of high dose barbiturates, a dose so high that I once tried it and found myself sobbing and "out of body" for hours. The doctor informed us that if we tried to pursuit chemotherapy from another physician or cancer treatment center, he would personally report us to child services for child abuse. Our parents also threatened us with a report to child services if we did nothing and just let our daughter die.

It was a horrible time for me, for Dennis, for our family.

PoRo mimicked my medication taking. She had watched me take pain medication for a long, long time (since July of 2003), and she was certain if I did it, it had to be right. I was her hero, another mistake she made. In mimicking what I do many times with my invalid pain medications, she took just a half a dose higher than was recommended, and it killed her.

Her death was ruled an accident.

Dennis and I both turned ourselves in to the police after the paramedics took PoRo's body away. We blamed ourselves, and each other, at the same time. No charges were brought because PoRo had written in her journal hours before taking the fatal dose, that she had saw not only myself take multiple pain medicine pills, but her father usually over medicated, and so did her cousin Jess. We were all fine. She was never aware that medicine could be lethal, and if you died in this world, there's no reset button, and you don't get to come back. She thought she had super powers, as she thought the same about me, because she had beaten cancer three years before she died. I still cry for her because she died like an unwanted animal. With the same overdose they get. Except she wasn't an animal, and she wasn't unwanted. She was dearly loved and much wanted.

Not a day goes by that I don't think of her and the situation, and how tragic it turned out. There are many days that I wonder if there was something I could have done differently, that would make her alive to this day. When she was seven, she had several tumors removed from her breast, and was given a clean bill of health after six months. But the cancer came back. It has a nasty, bad habit of doing that. I was happy when Chloe's tumors were declared benign. I don't think I could live through another innocent life being sick, weakened by a disease that is almost always fatal.

Because they were the best of friends on this Earth, in this Life, PoRo and Jess were interred next to one another, so their spirits need not wander too far to be together again.

Every February 25th since her death, I make a birthday cake for dessert at dinner time. I made one this year. As a tributing tradition, we, as a family, all blow out the candles on the cake at the same time. My hope is that she will be remembered because of this tradition.

I'd also like to point out, even though it is irrelevant in this whole thing, that a freak from the far ends of the web harassed me to tears over me taking extra pain medication for my severe pain. They mocked me, telling me that my kids were going to get into my medicine and die from drug overdoses. That person was not right. In both telling me that I was this apathetic bitch who partied down on prescription pain killer, and in accusing me of not caring for my kids. I care for my family. Just because I don't update my blog every day with how much I love and cherish them doesn't mean that I do not feel it, that I do not care for them. I don't know where that person (or her other two personalities are, the ones that pretended to be my friend(s) to get info out of me) is now, but if she does want to come mock me for her being "right" I really don't care. I don't have to let her comments through. And I can ban her second set of IPs as well.

Oh, and if he were alive, George Harrison would be 70 today.

Today is my oldest daughter's Fourteenth Birthday.

Or it would be, if she were alive.

Poetry Rose died of a barbiturate overdose, just a dose and a half of what was prescribed for her, in the wee hours of the morning on May 20, 2009. She was ten years old.

Suffering from multiple tumors that were causing her severe pain, PoRo's doctor had told her father and I that chemotherapy would just prolong her suffering, and wrote us a prescription for her of high dose barbiturates, a dose so high that I once tried it and found myself sobbing and "out of body" for hours. The doctor informed us that if we tried to pursuit chemotherapy from another physician or cancer treatment center, he would personally report us to child services for child abuse. Our parents also threatened us with a report to child services if we did nothing and just let our daughter die.

It was a horrible time for me, for Dennis, for our family.

PoRo mimicked my medication taking. She had watched me take pain medication for a long, long time (since July of 2003), and she was certain if I did it, it had to be right. I was her hero, another mistake she made. In mimicking what I do many times with my invalid pain medications, she took just a half a dose higher than was recommended, and it killed her.

Her death was ruled an accident.

Dennis and I both turned ourselves in to the police after the paramedics took PoRo's body away. We blamed ourselves, and each other, at the same time. No charges were brought because PoRo had written in her journal hours before taking the fatal dose, that she had saw not only myself take multiple pain medicine pills, but her father usually over medicated, and so did her cousin Jess. We were all fine. She was never aware that medicine could be lethal, and if you died in this world, there's no reset button, and you don't get to come back. She thought she had super powers, as she thought the same about me, because she had beaten cancer three years before she died. I still cry for her because she died like an unwanted animal. With the same overdose they get. Except she wasn't an animal, and she wasn't unwanted. She was dearly loved and much wanted.

Not a day goes by that I don't think of her and the situation, and how tragic it turned out. There are many days that I wonder if there was something I could have done differently, that would make her alive to this day. When she was seven, she had several tumors removed from her breast, and was given a clean bill of health after six months. But the cancer came back. It has a nasty, bad habit of doing that. I was happy when Chloe's tumors were declared benign. I don't think I could live through another innocent life being sick, weakened by a disease that is almost always fatal.

Because they were the best of friends on this Earth, in this Life, PoRo and Jess were interred next to one another, so their spirits need not wander too far to be together again.

Every February 25th since her death, I make a birthday cake for dessert at dinner time. I made one this year. As a tributing tradition, we, as a family, all blow out the candles on the cake at the same time. My hope is that she will be remembered because of this tradition.

I'd also like to point out, even though it is irrelevant in this whole thing, that a freak from the far ends of the web harassed me to tears over me taking extra pain medication for my severe pain. They mocked me, telling me that my kids were going to get into my medicine and die from drug overdoses. That person was not right. In both telling me that I was this apathetic bitch who partied down on prescription pain killer, and in accusing me of not caring for my kids. I care for my family. Just because I don't update my blog every day with how much I love and cherish them doesn't mean that I do not feel it, that I do not care for them. I don't know where that person (or her other two personalities are, the ones that pretended to be my friend(s) to get info out of me) is now, but if she does want to come mock me for her being "right" I really don't care. I don't have to let her comments through. And I can ban her second set of IPs as well.

Oh, and if he were alive, George Harrison would be 70 today.

Not Tonight

Sorry, I dont have the strength.

Sorry, I dont have the strength.

Nothing

I purchased a domain to match this site URL, but we all know that I won't do anything with it. Possibly have a WordPress installation. Domains expire. This page is free.

I had so much planned for today, but it all turned to shit. I was going to dig into my files and find a decent photo of myself for the side bar. I was going to make a new layout with graphics. I was going to find some of my old scans or at least the images that I wanted to rescan. But I did jack shit. Went to work. Came home. Laid in bed. That killed me. Once I hit the bed, I couldn't get back up out of it. I just went in and out of sleep for hours.

For now I've doubled up on my meds. I know that I shouldn't do that, but I can't help myself. I am suffering. I need something to comfort me. Say a little prayer for me. I am slowly breaking down.

I purchased a domain to match this site URL, but we all know that I won't do anything with it. Possibly have a WordPress installation. Domains expire. This page is free.

I had so much planned for today, but it all turned to shit. I was going to dig into my files and find a decent photo of myself for the side bar. I was going to make a new layout with graphics. I was going to find some of my old scans or at least the images that I wanted to rescan. But I did jack shit. Went to work. Came home. Laid in bed. That killed me. Once I hit the bed, I couldn't get back up out of it. I just went in and out of sleep for hours.

For now I've doubled up on my meds. I know that I shouldn't do that, but I can't help myself. I am suffering. I need something to comfort me. Say a little prayer for me. I am slowly breaking down.

Mother's Day

Happy Mother's Day to those that celebrate it. I spent the evening consoling poor Champ. His mother stopped having anything to do with him when he came out. Something stupid about never being able to be a grandmother now. The catch line that I blurted out was, "Haven't you told her that gays have discovered a miracle? Babies without sex! Seriously! The hetero people almost never use that method!" Champ was laughing that contagious laugh that he has with in seconds. That's my friend! I don't understand how a mother could disown a child because of who or what they are. I remember back when I was doing research for a paper I was writing on genetics, and parents were using a new kind of test to check and see what gender, eye colour and hair colour their babies were before they were born, and a whopping 16 out of 26 parents aborted their baby because it was not going to be the star of the football team, have the correct gender, hair or eye combination. It made me sick, researching that paper.

I looked down at my two boys playing "pick boogie" with their napping sister (yes, that game is exactly what you think it might be!), and I wondered how anyone can not love their children because of their sexuality. How could a human being kill a child (third trimester abortions here) because it was not going to live up to their "American Dream"?

I want to write more, but my back is hurting from sitting in this chair all day working on files and sites and installs. All I did was sit and work. It really did a number on my back, and I'm afraid that I am going to have to reach for that Vicodin after all. Maybe even the other medications that I was prescribed over the past week. I do not feel comfortable with taking them, but I will, just because I am sore tonight and I have to be at my best tomorrow, for appointments.

Sorry for a shite post, all. I promise better things are in the horizon. Even if I have to upload and post boring pics of my babies, maybe one of Mommie. Have a happy rest of the weekend, all!

Happy Mother's Day to those that celebrate it. I spent the evening consoling poor Champ. His mother stopped having anything to do with him when he came out. Something stupid about never being able to be a grandmother now. The catch line that I blurted out was, "Haven't you told her that gays have discovered a miracle? Babies without sex! Seriously! The hetero people almost never use that method!" Champ was laughing that contagious laugh that he has with in seconds. That's my friend! I don't understand how a mother could disown a child because of who or what they are. I remember back when I was doing research for a paper I was writing on genetics, and parents were using a new kind of test to check and see what gender, eye colour and hair colour their babies were before they were born, and a whopping 16 out of 26 parents aborted their baby because it was not going to be the star of the football team, have the correct gender, hair or eye combination. It made me sick, researching that paper.

I looked down at my two boys playing "pick boogie" with their napping sister (yes, that game is exactly what you think it might be!), and I wondered how anyone can not love their children because of their sexuality. How could a human being kill a child (third trimester abortions here) because it was not going to live up to their "American Dream"?

I want to write more, but my back is hurting from sitting in this chair all day working on files and sites and installs. All I did was sit and work. It really did a number on my back, and I'm afraid that I am going to have to reach for that Vicodin after all. Maybe even the other medications that I was prescribed over the past week. I do not feel comfortable with taking them, but I will, just because I am sore tonight and I have to be at my best tomorrow, for appointments.

Sorry for a shite post, all. I promise better things are in the horizon. Even if I have to upload and post boring pics of my babies, maybe one of Mommie. Have a happy rest of the weekend, all!

Over-Stayed The Welcome

I was never honestly happy today. The weather is nice, sure, but I wanted to share what little bit of happiness that I had left in me to ask a question. Something that I had planned 100% myself, without any help at all from Nick with the exception that just by chance I came upon his cell phone ringing and I answered it. I did a double take when I realised who I was talking to. I wrote down his message and then asked the question no musician wants to hear: "Can I ask you something?" "Sure!" Man, he was friendly!

I have a dear, sweet friend who is getting married soon, and if the person on the other end of the line was who I think it is, then I just had a wonderful idea for the wedding gift. I asked him if he was who I thought he was, and he said yes. Then came the worse question: "Do you do private parties and weddings?" He laughed. I tried to smile. We chatted a bit and I finally had him convinced to perform at the wedding. I was so happy. I was happy for her, happy for me, and happy for everyone who was going to be there.

Then I tried to share my happiness.

The friend that I set up the wedding surprises for, the perfume, the wedding singer, the hand-made invitations, wasn't too enthused with what I had put together. Yes, it was the best that I could do. I had those things when I got married, and they brought me good luck. The tradition goes that if something at your wedding brings happiness and good luck to your marriage, you should share it with a friend who is getting married. I tried. She wanted no part of it.

Horrifying thoughts of when Roxanna was an unfortunate part of my life, and I was forced to be nice to her while she cut me down, and talked bad about me behind my back to people who truly loved me. I had a small flash-in-the-pan thought that maybe that is what my friend is doing to me, now. Maybe I have over-stayed my welcome. Maybe we have grown apart. Maybe I was just fooling myself when I said that people genuinely like me and would have a better chance at being liked if my mother wasn't there to interfere. Maybe I am wrong.

It seems to happen when I'm in a good mood. Do they plan it that way?

I'm going to take some more leans and sleep until the pain stops. When ever that may be.

I was never honestly happy today. The weather is nice, sure, but I wanted to share what little bit of happiness that I had left in me to ask a question. Something that I had planned 100% myself, without any help at all from Nick with the exception that just by chance I came upon his cell phone ringing and I answered it. I did a double take when I realised who I was talking to. I wrote down his message and then asked the question no musician wants to hear: "Can I ask you something?" "Sure!" Man, he was friendly!

I have a dear, sweet friend who is getting married soon, and if the person on the other end of the line was who I think it is, then I just had a wonderful idea for the wedding gift. I asked him if he was who I thought he was, and he said yes. Then came the worse question: "Do you do private parties and weddings?" He laughed. I tried to smile. We chatted a bit and I finally had him convinced to perform at the wedding. I was so happy. I was happy for her, happy for me, and happy for everyone who was going to be there.

Then I tried to share my happiness.

The friend that I set up the wedding surprises for, the perfume, the wedding singer, the hand-made invitations, wasn't too enthused with what I had put together. Yes, it was the best that I could do. I had those things when I got married, and they brought me good luck. The tradition goes that if something at your wedding brings happiness and good luck to your marriage, you should share it with a friend who is getting married. I tried. She wanted no part of it.

Horrifying thoughts of when Roxanna was an unfortunate part of my life, and I was forced to be nice to her while she cut me down, and talked bad about me behind my back to people who truly loved me. I had a small flash-in-the-pan thought that maybe that is what my friend is doing to me, now. Maybe I have over-stayed my welcome. Maybe we have grown apart. Maybe I was just fooling myself when I said that people genuinely like me and would have a better chance at being liked if my mother wasn't there to interfere. Maybe I am wrong.

It seems to happen when I'm in a good mood. Do they plan it that way?

I'm going to take some more leans and sleep until the pain stops. When ever that may be.

Make It Go Away

Not an easy subject to write about: I want some things to go away. The emotional stressors of life are piling up on me and have been for months. Gotta do this, gotta be there. It's enough to make one want to find a convient hole in the ground and crawl into it. I've been asked for my opinion on things and then had insults and lies hurled at me when I was honest. When I cry, I am weak. If I am caught taking my daily medication, I am worthless. Why does it have to be this way?

I have been too sick to eat much over the past month. Too sick to do much of anything other than lie in bed and watch TV. All that lethargy caused me to get a blood clot. That clot put me in the hospital for a week and made me fret over whether or not I was going to miss Christmas and the tree trimmings with my family. Life is being particularly shitty to me right now, and when I try to lean on others, they back away. Fucking fair weather assholes.

I wish there were a quick fix for post-traumatic stress disorder, and the psychological trauma that I have endured. The fear that I have had to deal with on a daily basis for the past decade has done a toll on me. There are no easy answers for the reason I am broken. There are no quick fixes to soothe my soul and heal my heart. All that is left is the option to live, and I have taken that option, and I am happy with it. Others, however, are not so happy that I am where I am in life. They are the aggressors of the fear that eats away at me on a daily basis. They are the antagonists that cause my self-medication so I won't care what they do or say. If I don't care, I don't react, and they don't know if they've gotten to me.

It will all be better soon. I just know it.

Not an easy subject to write about: I want some things to go away. The emotional stressors of life are piling up on me and have been for months. Gotta do this, gotta be there. It's enough to make one want to find a convient hole in the ground and crawl into it. I've been asked for my opinion on things and then had insults and lies hurled at me when I was honest. When I cry, I am weak. If I am caught taking my daily medication, I am worthless. Why does it have to be this way?

I have been too sick to eat much over the past month. Too sick to do much of anything other than lie in bed and watch TV. All that lethargy caused me to get a blood clot. That clot put me in the hospital for a week and made me fret over whether or not I was going to miss Christmas and the tree trimmings with my family. Life is being particularly shitty to me right now, and when I try to lean on others, they back away. Fucking fair weather assholes.

I wish there were a quick fix for post-traumatic stress disorder, and the psychological trauma that I have endured. The fear that I have had to deal with on a daily basis for the past decade has done a toll on me. There are no easy answers for the reason I am broken. There are no quick fixes to soothe my soul and heal my heart. All that is left is the option to live, and I have taken that option, and I am happy with it. Others, however, are not so happy that I am where I am in life. They are the aggressors of the fear that eats away at me on a daily basis. They are the antagonists that cause my self-medication so I won't care what they do or say. If I don't care, I don't react, and they don't know if they've gotten to me.

It will all be better soon. I just know it.

It's Been Done

I am having some thoughts about this place. About my place in the world. Writing is a chore now. I do it because I feel that I should, not because I actually enjoy doing it. I write to please others. I write out of habit. Before I used to write because I got something out of it. Yes, that's selfish, but it's the only way I can fo it honestly, damnit. I feel that it is the only way artists can do anything good; if it's secretly selfishly for them and them alone. Think about it. How many #1 hit songs overflow the charts every year that are written/intended for the fans? None. It's always about love, lost or new, and the authors.

This whole "writing for a crowd" was good for me. I could express all that was on my mind, and people really enjoyed reading it. I enjoyed sharing. I enjoyed the sport, the art, of writing. Now I look at my paper on what I need to cover, just to be on top of things.

My life is not that particularly interesting. I will probably never have a movie or a novel made about my life, unless I write the book or I make the movie. I share a life that is identical to every other person in the world. Struggles, a family, life. What have I done that thousands or millions before me haven't already done? Millions after me will do the same things. The same is true with my thoughts. Others will have these same thoughts on the world. There's nothing unique about me.

I would be kidding myself if I said that I thought I had a unique outlook on life, because I have been dealt a bad hand, but I know that I do not. I do not want to become another cookie-cutter ex-addict, ex-escort on the web telling their tale of woe. That was one thing that I thought separated me from the others. I have a better outlook on life, not because I was all those things, but because I survived them and had a better outlook on life before, during and after. There was nor has been many things that would turn me bitter. Not even my health crisis afterwards.

In the end, it's all about being done, isn't it?

I am having some thoughts about this place. About my place in the world. Writing is a chore now. I do it because I feel that I should, not because I actually enjoy doing it. I write to please others. I write out of habit. Before I used to write because I got something out of it. Yes, that's selfish, but it's the only way I can fo it honestly, damnit. I feel that it is the only way artists can do anything good; if it's secretly selfishly for them and them alone. Think about it. How many #1 hit songs overflow the charts every year that are written/intended for the fans? None. It's always about love, lost or new, and the authors.

This whole "writing for a crowd" was good for me. I could express all that was on my mind, and people really enjoyed reading it. I enjoyed sharing. I enjoyed the sport, the art, of writing. Now I look at my paper on what I need to cover, just to be on top of things.

My life is not that particularly interesting. I will probably never have a movie or a novel made about my life, unless I write the book or I make the movie. I share a life that is identical to every other person in the world. Struggles, a family, life. What have I done that thousands or millions before me haven't already done? Millions after me will do the same things. The same is true with my thoughts. Others will have these same thoughts on the world. There's nothing unique about me.

I would be kidding myself if I said that I thought I had a unique outlook on life, because I have been dealt a bad hand, but I know that I do not. I do not want to become another cookie-cutter ex-addict, ex-escort on the web telling their tale of woe. That was one thing that I thought separated me from the others. I have a better outlook on life, not because I was all those things, but because I survived them and had a better outlook on life before, during and after. There was nor has been many things that would turn me bitter. Not even my health crisis afterwards.

In the end, it's all about being done, isn't it?