Tomorrow is never promised. Similar to a suicide, a note, a left behind picture in a housefire, you can never feel your bestowed heart breathe the way it does in moments you feel yourself dying from outside your own body. My significant other has left me behind. I thought I'd be just fine. Honeytraps are just pain. All the way through. You think you've been found. I'm only aware all I belonged was in an industry that didn't want me back as much. Now my life is in a bodybag waiting to be carried out.
I'm not sick in the way you'd think I am. I chose to be a goner. I've suffered enough heartbreak from the exploitation that was my very drugged out past never knowing what protection from pain was. Everyone can deny where I came from, who I will be, who I am. But I know the essential truth.
I have no one.
The whole way through, there was no one.
Sick of my existence, I was no one.
I'm circulating through the thoughts as I shoot myself up every fifteen minutes. It's never meant to come to an end — my suffering, the inevitable. I do not feel a meek bit of pity towards myself. I couldn't give a fuck less. I'm that fucked up girl you never wanted to know a thing about but so invited itself to your thoughts and you couldn't help but feel amazed, that, somehow, in some sceaming hallway of a patreon's will, like an opium hit, a superb fucking person walked through the planes and crashed into me.
And I ran in the opposite direction.
I ran away from my fate in place of, what was, a hell of a ride I didn't need to go on.
—
The guilt always stays longer than the grief. That is the part one is never ready for.
Loss is loud as it announces itself. As if suffering long enough can somehow rewrite the past.
As if punishment and love were the same thing.
Guilt, a strange parasite, feeds on things that cannot be changed. The answers never come.
Only more guilt.
And I'm tired.
Tired of dragging old verdicts behind me. Tired of apologizing to ghosts. Tired of treating every wound like evidence against my own existence.
Maybe letting go isn't betrayal.
Maybe it isn't forgetting.
Maybe it means accepting that I am human in moments I desperately wanted to be perfect.
I don't want to carry this forever.
I want to set it down.
Not because it weighs nothing.
Because it weighs too much.
——
Dethawing, I am. Attending addictions counselling — no matter how pointless — has been productive or so I attempt to make the time I've spent in those rooms worth my while. But I still relapsed.
What the fuck is the point in remaining sober, again? I ask myself several times a week. I cannot stand life as it is for I am ridiculed by post traumatic stress disorder. Do you even want to know what it's like to have borderline atop of a psychological condition you gained from people simply being inclined to hate you?
There is not some magical code you find behind a mysterious door in dealing with being slammed like a sequel's backlash. Haters are not some form of motivation to be better. All they do is tear you apart. There is nothing quite like the pain of being hated for who you are, by default, no second chances; cold condemnation.
Am I even thawing? I don't feel it so much as I feel as though I am deceiving myself.
Like I said. Tomorrow is never promised. Every day's a new day to fucking try again.