Forsaken by my own thoughts... the ebbed sensations replaced by shadow, stick figures seeking for lost dinner plates. My conscious has been replaced by the flaky paste of dried saliva, mucous and tears. Like stained teeth gnawing through dried, cracking lips... the empty gaze of puzzled thoughts, only this one remains void. Existence breed with chaos. Dignity lost among the mannequins. Whether a Shepard's crook or the Devil's hook... the destination, has only but one name. Can you still see me, as I lay here in this soiled grave?
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Full Length Mirrors
Recently, I've learned the difference between feeling alone and actually being alone. Because of my disassociation with people and emotions, I've felt alone all of my life... whether or not people are in my life or my home. I could have someone in the very next room, yet I would feel all alone... like there was no one to care or even feign their compassion. As most of my readers know, I've been having difficulties with the people that I live with for several years now... constant stress, betrayal, and theft. Recent events led to the removal of these people from my home... the tension had grown so immense due to the constant discovery or more thefts, that I finally snapped and a physical altercation arose. I've been living in this house completely alone for almost two weeks now... well not completely alone, because my companion animal is still here. These people had been in my life for the past 12 years and their removal has been both good and bad. In their absence, my stress and the tension have been significantly reduced and the comfort in knowing the thefts have finally stopped has been like a weight lifted from my shoulders. For the past 12 years, these people have been family, and even though they held that title, I still felt alone... unwanted, unloved, unappreciated. Over the course of those years they would attempt to tell me otherwise, but the nature of my feelings never changed. Despite their efforts and my own, I felt alone. Now that I am living here all by myself, things feel different.... I'm starting to notice the difference between the feeling of being alone and, in fact, being alone. Now that the "family" has parted ways, the feigned affection has also disappeared. At the beginning, several people including other family members, "friends", and my doctors, expressed concern and compassion... telling me such things as, "we care about you..." and "we are here for you...". Despite their words, no one has taken the time to check in on me or return my efforts to communicate with them. I find this strange because everyone expressed great concern for a number of years, on whether I would be able to live on my own... the concern was that I would get lost in my delusional world and the hallucinations and neglect would ultimately end in my death. Surprise, surprise... even with my recent return to drug addiction, I am still very much alive. Now that the basis of such "promises" and concerns" walked out of the front door with the people that once lived here, I am experiencing what it truly means to be all alone. I spend my days still locked away in this room, even thought the entire house is empty. For years, I've expressed that this room was much like a prison cell, and it appears more so than ever before, that it in fact is one. I'm not experiencing any increased sorrow due to the lack of warm flesh within these walls, nor do I feel lonely. But there is a difference, to be sure. For all of those years, I felt alone, but it was accompanied with words assuring me that I wasn't, despite my feelings on the matter. Now that those "assurances" have disappeared, even though I never believed them, things feel completely different. Now I understand the difference between feeling alone and being alone.I'll admit, even though I never believed those words being expressed to me or the "feigned affections", it does sting a little to know they were only words all along. Conformation can be a bitter and cruel mistress, indeed. I guess the most discouraging thing I'm experiencing, is the realization that all of those people may have been right about my inability to survive alone. My hallucinations have increased significantly as has my drug consumption and the neglect to my bodily needs has also increased. Even though I spend most of my time in bed, I'm not really sleeping all that well... it's more of a drug induced incapacitation. I've always forgotten to eat on a regular basis, but now even when I am reminded by hunger and distress that I need to eat something, I won't because it involves a lengthy and stressful ordeal of counting and verifying that the refrigerator is closed and properly sealed. I do eat eventually, usually when my stress is low enough to handle the series of checks and verifications or when I am too fucking high to care to count. It is a problem. It's things such as this, which has me wondering if they were right all along. Either way, there is nothing I can really do about it. This realization of the difference between being and feeling alone, has been enlightening. My emotional stability is about the same as before and quite honestly, I'm not struggling with the change and this realization. I'm not writing about it because I feel sorrow or even confusion, I'm writing about it because I recognize the difference now. In a lot of ways, the two feel very much the same... yet at the same time, there are some differences. I guess the biggest one being conformation. However, after several years of wanting to be free and having the opportunity to live alone, I do believe the good out weighs the different. Change has never been something I've felt comfortable with, but this change is welcomed and long awaited. It can seem a bit daunting at times, but the peace of knowing I shall not be subject to more betrayal is comforting, to say the least. I can only hope they're all wrong and that this is something I can do... that I can survive on my own. As much as I crave death and departure of this world, I need to make this work... I just have to.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
The Powder Room
A perverse amount of time has passed since I have been able to come here and document the pathetic nature of my life... or what passes for the excuse of living life. I am indeed not living, rather I am nothing more than a slave to addiction, torment and debauchery. Within these walls of script, that have outlined the nature of my various failures, crimes and transgressions, you've become familiar with the monster that wears the face of humanity and mingles among the living. Most of the events written within, require some deduction and thought to fully appreciate their significance and meaning. This will not be the case today. For the message I have to share today, needs not the lattice and veiled approach... the dirt upon my face and the spittle foaming in the corners of my lips speak for itself.
About three months ago, I returned to the rabbit hole and the denizens within... once again engaging in the dance of substance abuse. They welcomed me passionately, as I returned to the embrace of lost lovers... the orgasm of flesh and mind, as the drugs consumed any remaining remnants of pride and self-worth. The affair did not end there, for it has become a daily exercise of humiliation and debasement. The seductress of choice this time around is opiates... more specifically, Dilaudid. Once I awake for the day, within moments I've ingested enough to send my body into a nodding delirium. The ecstasy washes over me and the foot race ensues... running frantically from the stress of the day and the demons that devour my remaining sanity. Once the slightest sign of sobriety approaches, I return desperately to the bedroom floor of my mistress and expose my milky flesh in exchange for another dose of orgasmic bliss. The dance continues all day long, day after day, without rest and an endless amount of remorse. I've become a whore to my drug and myself... a junkie and an established author of failure.
Of course, all of this is a descriptive way of informing you that I have once again starting abusing drugs. NO, I am not whoring myself out for drugs and there is, in fact, no mistress or drug dealing rabbits. As you already know, I suffer from chronic pain due to some injuries to my back, neck and leg from long ago. It is also well known that even though I was sober for over ten years, I still displayed behavior of a drug addict by hoarding my pain medications. So you see, there is no need to sell my body for drugs or even associate with a drug dealer, because I have a near endless supply of opiates at my disposal. I suppose that's why I chose to abuse that particular drug... availability. As for what lead me down this path, that's a different story entirely. Yes, there were circumstances, but the biggest factor would be weakness. Yes, things were said and certain event transpired, but the decision was ultimately mine and mine alone. No one forced me to start using again... I took that leap all by myself.
When I stopped using drugs before, it became a common occurrence to have people tell me things like, "It won't last" and "Once a junkie, always a junkie". I suppose part of me became accustomed to this attitude from others and their cruelty and ignorance. At the same time, I suppose part of me always remained very sensitive and hurt my these thoughts. Perhaps that's why what followed had such a profound impact on my decision to start using drugs again. For a little over a year now, I've had a very strong desire to have a child of my own.... to raise a family that I had a role in creating. This idea, this thought, has become something that I yearn for greatly. Not too long along, someone very close to me, at the time, told me something very callous and cruel. They said they would never even consider having a child with someone like me, a former drug addict, because they would only return to that lifestyle and ruin the life and childhood of their child. Hearing this, broke my heart and shattered my dreams and desires... as if my face were brutally thrust into a mirror and I was force fed the shards of broken glass. This person supposedly cared for me and called themselves my friend... to hear something so hurtful really had a profound impact on my fragile and limited self-esteem. I was fueled with anger and rage... all of the voices came running back to the front line. "Once a junkie, always a junkie!". I thought to myself, "Why not? Fuck it! Let them be right... I don't give a fuck anymore!". The stress in my life had become unbearable and my hopes of leaving this apartment and living on my own had only become more and more complicated and delayed. So I needed an escape. I needed a way to leave all of this bullshit behind me. So I did. I closed my eyes and said "Goodbye" to my ten years of sobriety and returned to the place I once swore I'd never see again.
So here I sit... three months into this addiction that has a firm grasp on my soul and testicles. I have no one to blame but myself, and truthfully, I don't. I did in the beginning perhaps. But now, it is very clear to me that this was a decision of my own making and design. I'm not comfortable with it, by any means. In fact, I fucking hate it. At first, I was hoping it would just kill me... then I could finally say goodbye to this pathetic excuse of an existence. However, as I've stated countless times before... nothing is ever as simple as we'd like it to be. For now, let's just say I'm no longer satisfied with the idea of dieing from this addiction... it's something I wish to remove from my life, so that I can begin a new chapter. A chapter worth living. But that's a story for another time.
For now, this is all I have to share on the subject. For those of you that consider yourselves my friends... I am truly sorry that I've let you down and become something less than human. For those of you that desire to judge me on my short comings and "knew this day was coming"... go fuck yourselves, you self-righteous, mother fucking leeches.
About three months ago, I returned to the rabbit hole and the denizens within... once again engaging in the dance of substance abuse. They welcomed me passionately, as I returned to the embrace of lost lovers... the orgasm of flesh and mind, as the drugs consumed any remaining remnants of pride and self-worth. The affair did not end there, for it has become a daily exercise of humiliation and debasement. The seductress of choice this time around is opiates... more specifically, Dilaudid. Once I awake for the day, within moments I've ingested enough to send my body into a nodding delirium. The ecstasy washes over me and the foot race ensues... running frantically from the stress of the day and the demons that devour my remaining sanity. Once the slightest sign of sobriety approaches, I return desperately to the bedroom floor of my mistress and expose my milky flesh in exchange for another dose of orgasmic bliss. The dance continues all day long, day after day, without rest and an endless amount of remorse. I've become a whore to my drug and myself... a junkie and an established author of failure.
Of course, all of this is a descriptive way of informing you that I have once again starting abusing drugs. NO, I am not whoring myself out for drugs and there is, in fact, no mistress or drug dealing rabbits. As you already know, I suffer from chronic pain due to some injuries to my back, neck and leg from long ago. It is also well known that even though I was sober for over ten years, I still displayed behavior of a drug addict by hoarding my pain medications. So you see, there is no need to sell my body for drugs or even associate with a drug dealer, because I have a near endless supply of opiates at my disposal. I suppose that's why I chose to abuse that particular drug... availability. As for what lead me down this path, that's a different story entirely. Yes, there were circumstances, but the biggest factor would be weakness. Yes, things were said and certain event transpired, but the decision was ultimately mine and mine alone. No one forced me to start using again... I took that leap all by myself.
When I stopped using drugs before, it became a common occurrence to have people tell me things like, "It won't last" and "Once a junkie, always a junkie". I suppose part of me became accustomed to this attitude from others and their cruelty and ignorance. At the same time, I suppose part of me always remained very sensitive and hurt my these thoughts. Perhaps that's why what followed had such a profound impact on my decision to start using drugs again. For a little over a year now, I've had a very strong desire to have a child of my own.... to raise a family that I had a role in creating. This idea, this thought, has become something that I yearn for greatly. Not too long along, someone very close to me, at the time, told me something very callous and cruel. They said they would never even consider having a child with someone like me, a former drug addict, because they would only return to that lifestyle and ruin the life and childhood of their child. Hearing this, broke my heart and shattered my dreams and desires... as if my face were brutally thrust into a mirror and I was force fed the shards of broken glass. This person supposedly cared for me and called themselves my friend... to hear something so hurtful really had a profound impact on my fragile and limited self-esteem. I was fueled with anger and rage... all of the voices came running back to the front line. "Once a junkie, always a junkie!". I thought to myself, "Why not? Fuck it! Let them be right... I don't give a fuck anymore!". The stress in my life had become unbearable and my hopes of leaving this apartment and living on my own had only become more and more complicated and delayed. So I needed an escape. I needed a way to leave all of this bullshit behind me. So I did. I closed my eyes and said "Goodbye" to my ten years of sobriety and returned to the place I once swore I'd never see again.
So here I sit... three months into this addiction that has a firm grasp on my soul and testicles. I have no one to blame but myself, and truthfully, I don't. I did in the beginning perhaps. But now, it is very clear to me that this was a decision of my own making and design. I'm not comfortable with it, by any means. In fact, I fucking hate it. At first, I was hoping it would just kill me... then I could finally say goodbye to this pathetic excuse of an existence. However, as I've stated countless times before... nothing is ever as simple as we'd like it to be. For now, let's just say I'm no longer satisfied with the idea of dieing from this addiction... it's something I wish to remove from my life, so that I can begin a new chapter. A chapter worth living. But that's a story for another time.
For now, this is all I have to share on the subject. For those of you that consider yourselves my friends... I am truly sorry that I've let you down and become something less than human. For those of you that desire to judge me on my short comings and "knew this day was coming"... go fuck yourselves, you self-righteous, mother fucking leeches.
Monday, October 15, 2012
Backyard Mechanic
It doesn't matter how many different vehicles you bring over to jump start your car... it will never work. Your car will not start. It's not the battery... it's your starter. It has a faulty solenoid. Take a flat-head screwdriver and bypass the solenoid by touching the two terminal posts... your car will start, I assure you. After conformation, remove your starter and replace the solenoid... you'll be back on the road in no time. I apologize for watching you from my window for the past few days... I could have helped you and saved you much time and effort. I just couldn't. I couldn't stand the thought of talking with someone new. I couldn't break the chains of insecurity and anxiety. All I could do was watch and hope you'd find the answers you were seeking. The fear is crippling... much like your solenoid.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
The Scar Tissue Incident
Something needs to give... whether it be my will or the relentless assault on these cursed emotions. I'm broken... the chewed toy buried in the backyard. Slowly digested by time and these acidic thoughts... the poisonous neglect of those claiming to care. I am alone. It's nothing new... in fact, I should have been hardened to this truth long ago. Yet, I believe those sweet words when uttered in my leprous ears... all the while knowing those eyes have become callous and filled with deceit. The venomous beauty... my sweetest torment. It only serves to fuel the already overwhelming hatred I feel for this pathetic mass called a man... I am neither a man, nor the moppet. I am the willing bitch... a whore to desired affections and the centerpiece of insecurity. I hate you... I fucking hate myself. I spend my time rocking in the womb, weeping for the things forgotten and running from those remembered... strangulation and humiliation, the comforts of this diseased edifice. I still yearn for those possibilities at night as I clutch my pillow... the echoing words of what was shared and desired. Though I now see the words for what they are, slivered glass embedded in a cancerous gullet... my heart aches for the veil to once again shroud the deception. How I long for it...fuck! The irony is thick, for now I take on the role of the fattened calf... to gurgle and spit, over and over as you thrust and penetrate my throat with your rusted, forked tongue. The daily ritual, of you, the unsatiated sadist... my captor and false prophet. Filed in line, behind the others... to claim the place as my muse and infection. Seeping through my skin and bubbling my blood black... the deepest cut upon my soul. It cannot heal... lest I refuse the candied scabs you offer me. Why? Fucking why? Is it so tasty... does curdled blood moisten that cunt you call a heart? I suffer your words and the lack thereof. Why do I cry? Why the solemn and wounded expression on my face? Because I've return to where I was once before... before the time of hope and desire. A time of misery and despair, torment and sorrow... just as you found, only this time, broken beyond mending. I understand now, Layne, those words of fighting all alone... more so than I did before. Praying for safe passage, as the shroud of companionship rots. Richard insists that the only comfort and love that will ever reach this heart, is the sultry drip of a needle buried in my arm... the thickened saliva and sweaty teeth of the dirt filling my chest and powdering my nose. The brick that bathes my gullet... warm whiskey and soiled cotton. The boot offers an erection... the salty, metallic taste escorting my orgasm. I need the release. I need the numbing nod. I need the escape. I need the end...
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Raise Your Glass
I've been trying to figure this out... the sorting of odds and ends, little children and decimal points. If two makes three, then why would a fourth make only one? Lots of things in my sheltered, little world have been changing rapidly... the razor swam violently through the folds of that bloated neck. There was no blood or squirming... only a whimper, accompanying the pus and bile.
Richard came and visited me last night... it has been awhile since he displayed the strength and resolve to speak his mind unhindered. He poured me a glass of bleach and offered his opinions with malice and buttered toast. He told me to drink and to forget... forget this madness of emotions and purpose. That the road that awaits me has nothing more to offer... just the worn soles and blisters upon my feet. For once, I think he may be completely correct... there is nothing waiting down there for me, only more regret and heartache. If I were to die today, right this fucking moment, there would be nothing to prove my worth or existence. Perhaps some photographs that could be anyone really, no accomplishments or achievements. I have these scribblings on digital paper and a cardboard box of tangible delusions... nothing more, not respectable in the least. I have skeletons living in boxes.. more fingers and toes. Just waiting for their release... my secrets would come undone when the vultures come to pick through my carcass and memories. Letters and bits of hair, wrapped in shame, and the clothing they once wore... and finer too, are the cotton few, that line those photograph's tomb. No one would come to my funeral... for there wouldn't be anyone that would arrange it. My grave would shallow and unmarked, much like my life... nothing to remain when the dust comes home. My only "friends" and "companions" are in the digital world... no one touches my flesh or dries my tears, just the cracking skin of my own hands. Richard knows well, his words paint my empty canvas... but his resolve is nontransferable. I reek of cowardice and I lack the strength to end this mockery of an existence. I fucking hate it here... and I hate you, for fucking bringing me back.
Richard came and visited me last night... it has been awhile since he displayed the strength and resolve to speak his mind unhindered. He poured me a glass of bleach and offered his opinions with malice and buttered toast. He told me to drink and to forget... forget this madness of emotions and purpose. That the road that awaits me has nothing more to offer... just the worn soles and blisters upon my feet. For once, I think he may be completely correct... there is nothing waiting down there for me, only more regret and heartache. If I were to die today, right this fucking moment, there would be nothing to prove my worth or existence. Perhaps some photographs that could be anyone really, no accomplishments or achievements. I have these scribblings on digital paper and a cardboard box of tangible delusions... nothing more, not respectable in the least. I have skeletons living in boxes.. more fingers and toes. Just waiting for their release... my secrets would come undone when the vultures come to pick through my carcass and memories. Letters and bits of hair, wrapped in shame, and the clothing they once wore... and finer too, are the cotton few, that line those photograph's tomb. No one would come to my funeral... for there wouldn't be anyone that would arrange it. My grave would shallow and unmarked, much like my life... nothing to remain when the dust comes home. My only "friends" and "companions" are in the digital world... no one touches my flesh or dries my tears, just the cracking skin of my own hands. Richard knows well, his words paint my empty canvas... but his resolve is nontransferable. I reek of cowardice and I lack the strength to end this mockery of an existence. I fucking hate it here... and I hate you, for fucking bringing me back.
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Run Away
I've failed, yet again. Disappointment washes over my swollen limbs and fevered heart. I wanted so desperately to write here often and I can't seem to accomplish that... these pages have been becoming more and more neglected as time creeps forward. The only reason I'm here now, writing, is because I feel so fucking lost and broken... I need the distraction to stop me from just giving in and ending this pitiful existence.
Things have continued to fall apart... despite my efforts to live my life without the echos of guilt and shame. The mirror reminds me, family reminds me, and even now the one I hold closest in my heart is a constant reminder of my short comings and past. It wasn't so long ago that I was so enthralled and encouraged to be a better man... that dream died the moment I shared my past with her. I am now unfit and untrustworthy to be a man worthy of a life and family... I'm forever scarred with the man I used to be. Truthfully, people generally don't change... they just become better at hiding their dirty little secrets and compulsions. But it can indeed happen... I'm proof of that. But what's the point of changing if people will only remember what was... forever clouding their eyes to what now is and the things to come? It weakens my faith and purges any hope of redemption and solace.
I just want to be happy... is that too fucking much to ask? How those elegant and captivating eyes have turned to dull, rusted daggers... stabbing at my throat and drowning the children in curdled blood, as my gullet swells and overflows with yesterday's bile and shame.Why? Why can't it? Why can't we...
Things have continued to fall apart... despite my efforts to live my life without the echos of guilt and shame. The mirror reminds me, family reminds me, and even now the one I hold closest in my heart is a constant reminder of my short comings and past. It wasn't so long ago that I was so enthralled and encouraged to be a better man... that dream died the moment I shared my past with her. I am now unfit and untrustworthy to be a man worthy of a life and family... I'm forever scarred with the man I used to be. Truthfully, people generally don't change... they just become better at hiding their dirty little secrets and compulsions. But it can indeed happen... I'm proof of that. But what's the point of changing if people will only remember what was... forever clouding their eyes to what now is and the things to come? It weakens my faith and purges any hope of redemption and solace.
I just want to be happy... is that too fucking much to ask? How those elegant and captivating eyes have turned to dull, rusted daggers... stabbing at my throat and drowning the children in curdled blood, as my gullet swells and overflows with yesterday's bile and shame.Why? Why can't it? Why can't we...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)