August 13, 2014

  • The End.

    So I'm listening to Green Day at full blast again, sitting at the computer in Jonestown writing this... What's new, right? But nothing is okay now. There is no relief; there is no end in sight; there is no hope; and there is no coming back from this. "So make the best of this test and don't ask why..." I had the time of my life. And now it's over. I wish I could get sober. I wish this was over. "For what it's worth, it was worth all the while..." Was it though? Yes, yes it was. But it's gone now and there's absolutely nothing I can do but do myself in with drugs and alcohol. Drinking till I'm dry seems to be my average now. I can't write, I can't act, I can't sing, I can't be me, I can't survive this, I can't do anygoddamnthing anymore. But I can drink and smoke and break my heart. I can do that. Can't bring myself to even open the envelope from Xandria that I'm sure is contained of photos and drawings that would make my heart melt over my little boy. But I can't open it. I can't even look. How low am I? God, all I ask is that you never let Chance feel this way. Never let him become this. Please don't give him whatever horrible mental illness that I am plagued with. Please let him live a normal, happy life. And please let him forget about me. Please don't let me ruin anything for him... God, I can't even believe that I have created a human being who is now old enough to walk, talk, and remember... God, please don't give him my memory. It would be cruel and undeserved punishment for his non-mother's sins. I wouldn't wish this photographic memory on anyone in the world, and I wish it would die already. I want to get amnesia more than anyone in the world... That's why I keep hitting myself in the head and banging my body around. I don't want to be a pretty little thing that sits around and gets abused by badges and beaten and broken. I hate everything and I can't bare to go on anymore. I went to my dad's closet and dragged out the rifle that I knew was standing in the back right corner, well hidden by shoes and clothes. I sat there on my knees with the gun in my lap. The handle was wet with tears I was dripping, and I tried to hold it to my head, but couldn't reach the trigger while holding it there. So I pushed it up against my throat, but still couldn't reach the trigger with the proper angle... I don't want to keep living, but be disfigured or in a coma. If I'm aiming at all, I'm aiming to kill... So I shoved the barrel in my mouth, to the point of gagging and I gripped the trigger... I sat there for a minute or so, just feeling the gun in my mouth, imagining the bullet blowing through my skull... I am no idiot, I knew I couldn't bring myself to pull the trigger. I knew it all along... I wasn't trying to kill myself, I was trying to get used to the idea... I know that the first time I grab a gun and stick it in my mouth won't be the time I can gather up the guts to pull it. But I do know that in order to go through with anything, it takes getting familiar with it first. I just wanted to start getting used to the idea of a gun in my mouth because some day I will use it, and I am hoping that day comes sooner, rather than later. I must be jaded and desensitized before I am able to get the guts up enough to pull the trigger... I am not going to fail; I just couldn't work up the courage today. I am holding out hope that someday soon I will be just strong enough and just weak enough to finally do it. I am done with writing now; this is as much as I could do. The End. For now.