Vodka and Regrets

            What are you supposed to do when you have nothing to live for anymore? When there is no one left in your life to turn to? No one there to talk you down or be your rock when you need some weight to keep you from floating away? What the fuck are you supposed to do when the one person who is supposed to be there for you is such a self centered ass that all they can see is how YOUR pain affects THEM? And that’s all they care about. Sure they make a lot of bluster about how they’re trying to be there for you, they’re trying to be what you need, but they’re not. They’re just pissed because they’re not the center of your attention. That pesky depression is taking up all your time. And how dare you? I mean, really, what’s your mental health compared to their need to be babied and given attention constantly like some fucking four year old in an adult body. They’re exactly the wrong type of person for you and you know it but that doesn't change how you feel. The heart wants what it wants. And often enough your heart is an idiot. We fall for people that are not what we need. We fall for people that don’t love us like we love them. Sure sometimes they come around but the books are never even. You've always got more in your outgoing account than you do your incoming because you started paying out long before they did. So, it’s three thirty in the morning, you’re fucking tired but you’re too upset and angry to sleep. You never sleep anymore anyway. And three fucking thirty in the morning seems like a fine time to pull out that bottle of vodka while asshole is in the other room pouting like a little bitch because you’re mad at him. He doesn't care why you’re upset, it’s all so unfair to him. Isn't it, though? It’s not as if you’re sick and fucking tired of standing in the same place while the world moves on, piling more and more shit on top of you, trying to break you when inside you’re already so broken how could you even start on the outside world, but he doesn't care. He cares that you've been neglecting him. Which you have. Because there are days that you can’t even get out of bed without wanting to scream and cry and drink yourself blind but all he cares about is what he is not getting not why he is getting it. He is never there for you. Every time he says he is, you know it’s not true. He is there for himself. But he doesn't like it when you tell him what he feels. No matter how many times you've been right. You’re never right til he says you are. Feminism at it’s finest, truly. A woman can only be right if a man agrees. So you’re sitting here and you’re sipping your vodka. It’s as bitter as your fucking life and that works for you. If it was storming outside would be better. Storming, dark, cold, vodka, hate, anger, pain, misery, hopeless. And music. Can’t forget the music. You have to have the music because it speaks for you. It soothes you. It takes your feelings and gives them away. And slowly, the anger starts to dissipate and in it’s place you find all the sadness, the neverending ache that just stays inside you making you feel miserable all the time. There’s no hope. You know it but that heart, it’s an idiot. And all the time it tries to feel hopeful, it tries to look on the bright side, but every little step in that direction is countermanded with such force and shame and pain that you’re knocked back even farther than before. So what do you do? Where do you turn? Nowhere but to yourself. You have to. But you don’t know how. You haven’t looked inward and found strength there in so many years that you wouldn't have any idea how to bring it out again. It must be there somewhere, you believe that, you have to. If you can’t, if you don’t, then how would you even try? Can you try? How would you begin? There seem to be no answers. So you just take another drink. It’s been a long time since you turned to alcohol as an answer. It isn't an answer now. You know it. But what else can you do? Tonight, there is nothing that can be done except to try to prepare yourself for the sun when it comes, then you’ll have a choice to make. Go back and die slowly, every day, losing a little more of yourself, or move forward, move on, find your own strength and take no shit, take a lot of names and leave a mark that will not soon be forgotten. But do you have it in you? Are you too broken to take that step by now? Are you doomed to desire a freedom and a life that you can never have? 

Say My Name

I always think this is it; I can't take it anymore; I can't do this, I don't want to, I won't. But in the end, I always take some more; I always keep trying; my threshold hasn't been hit yet.  Being with him somehow ends up being more important than the pain. Even though the pain never ends. Every day a little more settles on top. I don't know how I do it anymore. I don't know how I calm down and remember I don't want to be alone. There is no worse disappointment than realizing someone you love more than anything doesn't deserve that love afterall. Your rough edged rebel with the heart of gold turned out to be harboring some cheap gold plated piece of coal inside. Every good glimmer you pan for is just more fool's gold mocking your love, your devotion, your hope. You can't keep track of all the lies. He may not even know the difference anymore. There's no where to run. You cannot hide. You can struggle, you can fight, you can try to claw, climb and dig your way out of the hole but there is no escape. Even if you got out, you'd come running back. 

All good things come to an end...but is that really necessary?

Why exactly must all good things come to an end? I mean, if it was necessarily to make room for better things, ok, that's great then but why is it that we expect, we know, if we are wise, that from the start of anything, it will inevitably come to an end? Should we not go into it with the shred of hope that somehow it will endure? Is it even possible for something to last? Should anything last forever? It feels like it should.

Well I did it

I went back and viewed my old posts. Some were worse than others, but overall I got one distinct impression. As unhappy as I thought I was back then...it doesn't even compare to how I feel now. That legitimately scares me. I have been in a few really bad places before. The fact that I can clearly see how well I was holding on then...and how poorly I am holding on now...makes me worry. Maybe blogging is going to help get out some of that fog that's sitting inside me and obscuring everything so I can't think, can't work through how I feel, can't ground myself.

On a different note, saw this line in an old post:

"If you get bitten in the ass by Luna Lovegood, lovey good things will happen to you." 

Now that is gold. 

It's been quite a long time

I am under no impression that being older and hopefully wiser will have heightened my chances of readers. The death of this blog came years ago at a time in which I didn't need a blog. I had friends, I had people I could talk to, perhaps not my every thought and secret, but people to say something to. Now, it's 2015 and I have no one, no family, no friends, no one to share with. Now I need this blog. If only to feel almost like I am speaking to someone. No one is there, that's certain enough. I'm not like one of those people who make a blog or youtube videos and end up with their own tv show. If anything, I'm more a deranged college drop out pretending they're talking to real people to make themselves feel better. I'm a little worried about browsing my old posts. If I recall, I was a freshman in college the last time I used this blog, when there were still little hopes and dreams floating in my periphery like little beacons leading me forward even when I was sure there was no where to go. But they've long since vanished and left me standing in this one place, scared, alone, shaken, broken. A few months back, my father died. We lost our house shortly after. I'm holding up in Sacramento now, hometown has been left behind but it didn't hurt as much as I expected because as it turns out all these years, my supreme attachment to it wasn't that I was born and raised there. Sure, I love it for that, but my attachment to it was my friends, the people I thought were my real family. But in the end, blood and chosen both walked out on me. Now it's just the town I was born in. Not a place I need to be to be whole. Now I could live anywhere. Because I have nothing to tie me anywhere. Well, I could live anywhere if I could afford it. I think I will have to move this time next year, truth be told. Rent is high. I never envisioned this kind of loneliness again. Only it's worse now, with my dad gone. We had our issues (mostly that we were too much alike) but he was my constant. My mom left us. My sister left us. But my daddy never left me, not until he died. I watched him die. I wish I hadn't. There was no goodbye, no time to say anything. I wish I could have thanked him for always being there for me, even if I wasn't the best daughter, he was the best dad in the world. My one source of unconditional love. Now, I'm a broke bitch with depression and anger issues and oddly enough all these years I thought secretly that everyone's love was entirely conditional, I wasn't wrong. I look around and find myself standing here entirely alone. My so called family is gone, my so called friends are gone, not even a text or a FB message to pretend as though they aren't. My closest friends now are people I have never met and by closest I mean, we occasionally chat over a post on Facebook. Overwhelmingly close, that. Everywhere I look I see pictures and reminders of the things I've lost. I don't know how to not see them, I can't get rid of them, it would hurt too much. As if the memory of love can hold me over for the rest of my existence. Only was it ever love at all if it was so easy to leave? My family just up and left, never spoke another word, clean cut, and I can live with that. But my friends? No official goodbye, it's more like oh yeah, we're still friends, totally, even if we never want to see you again, never talk to you, and won't even pay you more notice than random people online we don't even know. Have I mentioned we've been friends for the past decade? My crime? Depression. I guess I'm bringing them down. I get that. Don't want me around, sure. But cutting me off entirely and copping out of it at the same time by not admitting that's what it is? Yeah, ok. I have my dogs and my cats...4 of the former and 2 of the latter. There's the oldest, Shiloe, she is my willful old lady. She pretends to be deaf and does whatever she wants. I kind of let her half the time because she's 14 and she has cancer, though she manages to be quite sprightly when she wants to be. Jake is my old man, Shiloe's son, he is 10. He is a nightmare. He never listens. Barks at everyone. But he is the most loyal dog on the planet. Tootse is next, she is 6, Jake's daughter, Shiloe's granddaughter. She is my little angel. Little yappy though, but so cute, you forget that. All purebred rat terriers, those three. Then there's my chihuahua, Salem. Adorable nuisance. Wants to be the alpha, very sneaky about it. Should have named him Loki. He's 3. Then there's the babies, my kittens, Trick and Stitch. Gorgeous black ragdoll mixes. My only really well behaved pets. Trick is beautiful. His coat is red underneath, very fluffy. He is also massive. 5 months old and he is bigger than some full grown cats I've had. That's my family, those 6. As you can imagine, none of them talk back. The more I have no one to talk to, the crazier I feel, and the closer to exploding I feel. Which brings me back to the point of this blog post. I need the blog now. I need to talk. Even if I'm really just talking to myself.