Let’s get honest and high and drunk. I’m back. I took some valium, I’m drinking raspberry absolut (the only hard liquor in my house) and I just put down “the meditations of marcus aurelius” to read “he’s just not that into you”. I’m on a fiction ban. Salmon Rushdie only reads poetry when he’s writing a book because it reminds him how to respect a sentence. I am so fucking scared I can’t write anything but this shit. That I can’t get out an imaginative work of fiction. It’s comforting to write high like I can’t fuck anything up. I’ve been on a combination of endone and valium since I get back. Don’t tell anyone. I have a rule where I don’t take valium more than three days in a row because it’s too easy for me to slide back into addiction so I take endone as a reprieve. It doesn’t count.
I’m waiting for the prescription drugs and booze to kick in so I can look at myself in the mirror without flinching. If I were braver I would be sober. I don’t feel tortured but I must be running from something to put myself in this state. Is it loneliness? Does everyone feel this empty because the silence of my house is screaming. At night, in my bed, with all the lights off, I’m scared of the dark. If I sit alone too long, I cry for reasons I can’t tell you. Not because they are a secret because I do not know my own griefs.
I am going to have to pull myself out of this one on my ownsome. Poor little heroine. You are such a fucking damsel in distress. I love the secrecy of addiction. It’s so familiar like holding onto a broken heart while loving someone else. Three in the bed and the little one said ‘I love you endlessly’.
Now im fucked. Let’s talk. Or write.