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Just kill me now.

She called me a girl. I called her a cunt.

The previous week she had wanted me to fuck her. The previous week I had fucked her. The previous week she told me she loved me. This week I'm confused. This week I'm sorrowful. This week I'm angry. This week I don't understand. Next week she'll be fucking someone else. Next week she'll be another guy's problem. Next week I'll be nodding off. Next week I'll wonder why. Next week I'll be numb. Next week I'll succumb to depression. Next week I'll give up this dream I clung to for two years; next week I'll return to trying to die. Next week I'll resume this slow suicide.

You ok?

No, no I am not. Can you help?

No, I am not doing well at all.

Suicidal thoughts plague me; violent images of myself flash before my eyes. My spirit is low. My energy is lower. I'm finally realizing that I'm not going to do anything that I once wanted to do with my life. I'm finally settling into acceptance of my own failure. The best thing for me would be an accidental overdose. Please.

I am so sad.

I miss her so much. Regardless of how it ended, it was the happiest time of my life.

Walking through Denton feels like walking through a past that left me behind.

I'm walking but there's nowhere to walk to.

The bars closed six minutes ago. But my restless legs show no sign of tiring. So I walk, and I smoke, and I drank the last of my chardonnay, and I try not to panic. Insomnia is my bete noir. I resolve to find some tranquilizers tomorrow. Xanax, Klonopin, whatever. I can't go another night without sleeping. I would bite off my finger for a half gram of heroin right now.

My apartment reeks of vodka; my mouth tastes of rose.

On the plus side, my diet is working. It turns out that subsisting solely on alcohol, amphetamines, opioids, and nicotine really diminishes the old appetite. Even when I'm hungry, which isn't often thanks to the nicotine and amphetamines, I can't eat much because I'm nauseous. Thanks alcohol; thanks heroin. This is gross. I've lost five pounds, but my face is somehow both gaunt and puffy simultaneously. I am not a healthy man, not at all. And I'm turning thirty this year--how much more will my heart take? The random chest pains that I lie to my doctor about are becoming more and more frequent. I sleep less and less. I feel like I've been living the same day over and over again. I don't remember the last day I was completely clean. It has been a while. I'm a betting man, and I would not wager that this is going to end well.

I mostly want to go back to sleep.

A statement which becomes rather sad when it’s accompanied by the realization that I mostly have nightmares.

And the day keeps on rolling.

I missed the talk I was supposed to attend. One of my oldest friends had a paper accepted at a conference held at UT. I really wanted to go, and it wasn’t schedule until 1:30 today, plenty of time for me to roll out of bed and look presentable. And I missed it anyway. Why? Um, I blamed it on parking, which was semi-true, insofar as I actually left my apartment and drove to the school and the first parking garage was full. It becomes less true when one realizes that I’ve been familiar with the University of Texas’ parking situation for the past seven years, many of which I spent actually attending said University, which raises the question of why I didn’t wake up before 12:45 and why I didn’t think about where I might park beforehand. But forget these questions. What’s done is done, and what isn’t done isn’t done. And I didn’t make the conference, and I don’t have a good reason. And no, there isn’t a good reason for why I’m buzzed at this hour in the afternoon, an hour I’m guessing is approaching 3:00, but don’t particularly care to verify.

My ramen noodles are getting cold, and my bottle of vodka is empty, which means it’s approximately time to sober up enough to drive to the liquor store to buy another bottle of vodka.

#alcohol #addiction #alcoholism #despair #depression #austin

It’s 1:00 p.m. and I wake up.

A warm, furry, wise creature is on my stomach, glaring at me. Evie, a cat, but not my cat, because she doesn’t belong to anybody. She’s just Evie, the cat. She’s my roommate. My more responsible, judgmental, better looking roommate. If I sleep past 8:00 a.m. during the week she does this, sits on me and glares at me until I wake up. I can’t really blame her. This isn’t appropriate; this isn’t acceptable. I’m almost thirty and, once again, unemployed. I’m almost thirty and, once again, alcohol and opioids rule my life. She’s disappointed in me. I’m disappointed in me.

I look at the clock and a pang of anxiety stabs me in the chest. I audibly apologize to Evie and promise her that I’ll do better tomorrow. I probably won’t, but she doesn’t know that, at least I don’t think she does. I don’t know, she’s pretty fucking smart. Unnervingly smart for a cat.

I roll off the couch, because that is where I sleep, despite the two empty bedrooms in this godawfully large apartment, and cough until I almost throw up. Two and 19/20 empty cigarette packets are on the floor next to me. I shake out that last 1/20 and light it up, and apologize to Evie for the second time within my first ten minutes of waking. I sit on the couch-bed and look at my living room slash bedroom. An empty bottle of tequila. A half empty bottle of vodka. An empty bottle of juice. An empty pot that holds the remnants of ramen noodles. Cigarette butts that somehow didn’t burn the apartment down on the carpet. An empty amphetamine capsule, its contents chewed up at some point last night, I suppose, in a desperate attempt to force myself to become productive, to stop wasting time, to stop wasting life.

Clearly, it did not work.

#despair #evie #drugs #alcohol #addiction #depression

for the first time in quite a while I find myself amidst utter despair, despair so bleak despair such that death seems like the only option

I'm not suicidal I just can't get out of bed.

The DEA wants me dead.

#Kratom #iamkratom

I light another cigarette.

A few more drags, then I'll have the courage to do what needs to be done.

And isn't that always it? A few more hits, a few more drinks, a few more lines. The substance changes; the sentence doesn't.

And I don't know what I'm waiting for. Rejection in life is inevitable. No amount of nicotine or alcohol will change that. I cannot control what will happen; all I can do is offer myself.

But I feel like the answer will be no. And so I drink more. And I light another cigarette. I don't know. And it's the uncertainty that drives the substance use. The attempt to erase that feeling. The desire to be sure, one way or another. Because I'm scared shitless, sober or not. And if I'm to be frightened, oughtn't I be intoxicated?

I pop two sleeping pills, a couple of Advil, and chase it all with wine, then I light a cigarette and lay down as Kurt Cobain wails in the background.

I will not get better, I have been trying to be better for years now. It's not happening. And yeah, honestly? I miss the comfort in being sad.

I neither want nor deserve sympathy. I know what ive done, and I know what I'm doing, and I know what's going to happen. Yes, I'm weak. I know that. No, I'm not going to rise above all of this and repair my life. I've tried. I've failed. “Dumb” sounds perfectly fine to me.

Am I the biggest disappointment to come from UT since Roy Williams and TJ Ford? Perhaps.

I'm okay with that forgotten legacy.

It is too late.

Give me the bottles of wine and klonopin and leave me alone, please? Stop trying to save me. This is it.

#drugs #addiction

I'm SCARED.

After Switzerland legalized heroin for addicted people over a decade ago (called heroin-assisted treatment, or HAT), literally nobody has died of an overdose on legal heroin, and crime fell significantly. That's why even the Swiss electorate—who are highly conservative—voted to keep heroin legal by 70 percent in a nationwide referendum.

#drugs #prohibition #war on drugs #addiction #decriminalization

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