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May 2013



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May. 3rd, 2013

It's been a while.

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Feb. 12th, 2013

Ugliness and Ick

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Jan. 28th, 2013

Running Hot.

I've not been taking my meds again. Not going to go into the turmoil and utter bullshit behind this behavior, but I'll describe one of the results.
There is a mood I can fall into (tends to happen at work) in which I am unbelievably angry. Not at anything in particular, I think it's tied a lot to wanting to relapse. Everyone else is a spineless moron and I know I am better. I have control. My hands shake with excitement and andrenaline, I lick my teeth and glare. I don't need food, or cigarettes. I plot all sorts of awful things in my head. My smile becomes predatory because of all the things I could do, I could do ANYTHING. I hunger for sex, drugs and violence. I work fast and hard and move determinedly. I sweat from fury but don't feel heat, or cold, or pain. People think 'What a fucking bitch.' But I am all powerful while the anger lasts. Then it will be lunchtime and after I've sat down and relaxed for a few minutes, it's over. I go back to timid, unsure idiot-girl. My energy is completely drained. But holy fuck, is it good while it lasts. I don't think if I tried to explain it to someone, they would understand. I call it 'running hot'.
...I met a guy who used to use anabolic steroids, and I think he might know what I mean.

Jan. 27th, 2013

Intense Using Dream

I dreamed that I relapsed on heroin. I put on my ripped up and patched clothes, stuffed a backpack, and left. I bought a roll of quarters soaked in dope and went to the house of an old 'road-dog'. I swallowed two, I gave him four. I knew he'd have more of a tolerance than me. Then we had a fight, wrestling and punching and cowering hiding, over the last quarters. I shouted "I didn't say you could have them!" as he flipped the couch to get at them. I tackled him and his head hit the edge of the stove in his small galley kitchen. I punched and kicked him but he pulled a gun. I managed to get it out of his hand and upright again, and he had another. We aimed at each other, but the guns were light, flimsy, plastic cigarette lighters; He got up and took the last quarters.
Then a brief interlude concerning the film 'American Beauty'. We were in a household bathroom with public service announcement wallpaper and a family member came in to express concern about our using.
The drug-abusing friend and I go out to his car, which is old and beat up and covered in stickers from a university he'd never attended. The passenger seat is pushed all the way forward. There is a tan station wagon sitting in the middle of the parking lot, blasting music. He said 'That motherfucker's been here all night.' I assumed there was crack smoking going on in the vehicle.
Then I am on the route 37 bus (I wasn't aware there was such a thing). I am standing at the front, and a man sitting a few rows back is making sexual comments and speaking loudly about pornography in general. I get him up and knee him in the groin and hit him a few times. The driver (a cool one, who wasn't wearing a shirt) kicked the man off the bus instead of me. He said he understood. The lewd man got back on a few stops later.
We pass through the slums and I see sick black kids everywhere. An older woman is telling her husband that her kids are going to pick up a disease called 'neighbourism' from some other children there. It will turn their hands black.
I have to walk past an AA event to get to where I am going once I leave the bus. It seems to be winding down, tables are being put away.
I am walking down a hill in the large nature park, which is spotted with fellows in the program. As I am trying to walk surreptitiously past someone I used to use heroin with, she pulls me aside and asks me to fix her pink gel pen. I twist it, it's fixed. She thanks me.
In the crook of my left arm is a mark from my real-life blood draw on Friday, on the right are track marks from heroin. One is red, the other is blue. I think, 'Gods, I would have had two years on Thursday.'

Jan. 14th, 2013

Like Nothing Else

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Jan. 3rd, 2013

I wanna

drive as far as I can, as fast as I can get away. I hate this stasis sometimes- the job, the regular sleep, the sobriety, the incessant nagging to keep going.
I hate feeling like I have to have my razors in my pocket at all times. I hate the rather obvious bloodstain on my pants today at work, the panic, what if someone asks me why I'm spewing blood from my knee...
I hate wanting so bad to shoot dope, and the only thing stopping me is my stupid fucking conscience.
I wish I felt nothing.
Can the highs really be worth the lows?
I always knew I'd die young, I still have no concept of what I am going to be as a grown up, even (nearly) 2 years sober.
I kind of wish the world had ended while I was still moderately OK. Then I wouldn't feel so bad about where I left off.
Go to sleep, tomorrow is another day.
I need to quit being so fucking emo about shit.

Jan. 1st, 2013


So, shortly after my last post, I looked through my phone. I went through it over and over, thinking, who can I call... I very nearly called Psych Emergency.
I just wanted to cut more and more and I knew I wouldn't be able to stop until it was too late. A kind of "I already have to keep parts of me hidden, I might as well go all out." Which, intellectually, I knew was a bad idea. I knew I'd feel better eventually, but would likely fuck myself up way too much physically to survive to see it.
So there I am, waiting for my sleepy pills to work and remove me from my frantic self-destruction, on the verge of tears because I feel like there's no one in my phone who likes me enough to help me.
I called a fellow in the program, someone I kind of have mixed feelings about because they mutated on me once, but I felt is an alright guy in general.
I said "I have a kind of weird favor to ask. Can you come get me from my house and babysit me all night?" He said Yes. No questions, no hesitation. Just Yes.
He came and got me and played video games all night while I slept. But I felt better. Someone was there, if not right next to me, in the next room. It was warm, just very nice and warm.
I'm so grateful someone cared enough to do that for me. The feelings didn't last forever after all. I made it through til morning.
I survived the re-living of the emotions of New Years 2011, and did it a lot more gracefully (that's saying a lot) and reached out for help.
Thank you HP, for putting people in my life whom I can ask for help, and will willingly give it.
Happy 2013 everyone.


I was so hyper and amiable and fun all night. And it just died, soon after the ball dropped.
I was flirting with everyone, cracking jokes, smiley.
Trying hard to be grateful I don't have to live like I was 2 years ago.
I was kind of banking on finally getting a new years kiss, it's something stupid that I wish so bad would happen. Didn't.
I thought DNA would answer his phone and we'd fuck like rabbits for the rest of the night. Straight to voicemail.
I think he left with boisterous pink coat girl. I feel unjustifiably betrayed. He's MINE. Except he's not.
I'm just very sad now. I used my brand new blades for the first time when I got home.
I was so dehydrated that my skin just hung open for a while before the blood came. It got everywhere. I forget how messy it is.
I don't feel any better.
I know these feelings will pass, but this anniversary of my life effectively ending just fucks me up.
I'm not suicidal, just really fucking sad.
I'm so upset that I'm going to sleep alone.

Dec. 28th, 2012

Very Discincerting Dream

First I was a cocaine kingpin. I wanted to get out of the life. I called in a raid on my own house, grabbed all my money and important shit, and ran. Somehow it involved running water over a box of 'hot money'. On the phone with the cops, I said 'I'm not going to prison, just come and clear up all the bullshit.' Then I was his son, still in the house, who was also a friend of mine LL. My mother, the ghetto trophy wife, was abusive, but self-righteous about my welfare, if that makes sense. She commented on how my pajama pants were scratchy on my penis, and grabbed it. She left then, too. I (the son, still) was applying at some social services for help. What I wrote on my application... it broke my heart. 'I am scum forced from her vagina, I am nothing...' It was so strange.

Now I am wide awake, even though it's early. I'm going to clean the fuck out of my house.

Dec. 25th, 2012

Short Thought

"What sounds do you fuckin' expect to hear coming from the cheap motel room next to yours early on Christmas morning? Quit freaking out."
-On the ginger, who finally called me with a 'present'. It wasn't really that good. Oh bloody well. (har har)

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