Bitter 

We arrive at the airport and our flight is delayed. I’d already come down from my blunt high and I’m now anxious and irritated. I hate flying. I love traveling, exploring new places, experiencing new cultures…but the process of getting to my destination is something I’ve always dreaded – long car rides included. 

We’re headed to Arizona for a hike to Havasupai Falls. Yes, I said hike. In Arizona. No, I’m not looking forward to it, not even a little. But it’s my boyfriend’s birthday tomorrow and I’ve missed out on basically every holiday and event this year because of my job. I wasn’t going to miss out on this too, no matter how bad I wanted to. 

First off, I hate the dessert. With a burning passion. My parents live in Vegas, so I get enough of that shit when I visit them in Nevada. Not to mention the dreadful heat, which I do not fare well in. Not only do I burn, no matter how much sunscreen I put on, but I sweat like a whore in church. Worst of all, with heat comes rage. And I had a lot of rage inside of me. 

It would be one thing if this trip was just my boyfriend and I, but it’s not. We’re going on this hike with my boyfriends brother and his wife, and a few of their friends, friends whom I’ve never met before, nor care to. Meeting new people has never been my thing. Ever since I could remember I dreaded it. If you haven’t noticed by now, I’m not exactly a people person. In fact, it would be my dream to get as far away from other human beings as possible. I’m a hermit; a recluse.

So here we are, waiting for our flight. I’m anxious (travelling in general has that effect on me), paranoid, and irritated. There was a taproom at our gate that I was dying to go to, but my boyfriend wasn’t up for it, and since I didn’t want to seem like a desperate alcoholic, I followed his lead and refrained. Plus, I was still recovering from what I think may have been pancreatitis. 

My legs are shaking uncontrollably and I can literally feel my blood start to boil as the craving for a drink and a smoke exacerbates to a new level. I needed that drink. I needed another blunt. Just to function. Just to get through the discomfort. Nothing could change my mind or distract me from this dying need. 

Turns out I am a desperate alcoholic. 

Update: we’ve landed in Arizona and now have to take a 2 hour shuttle ride to our hotel. More than anything I want to smoke a fucking bowl right now, but of course, we don’t have a lighter and there’s no where to purchase one while we wait for the bus. We will arrive at the hotel around 2AM. I would rather be dead right now or anywhere the fuck else but here, in this stupid fucking dessert with these stupid fucking people that I don’t even know nor give a rats ass about.

I genuinely regret coming on this trip. Take me home.

You Want To Be Small

You miss it. You miss seeing your bones. Hip bones. Collarbones.  Ribcage. You miss the girth of your tiny, frail wrists. You miss your spine, bending over forward and instantly transforming into a Stegosaurus. You miss your wings, the sharp edges of your shoulders.

You miss the secrecy. You miss the tricks. Waking up an hour earlier than everyone else to weigh yourself, hoping that you’d dropped, then thinking of ways to manipulate your weigh in so no one worries.

You miss the dark. Sitting all alone in front of the mirror. Staring at yourself, naked, reading the insults you wrote to yourself reflecting on the mirror. You miss crying, pinching your skin until it welted, pulling back the fat on your thighs to see how they’d look without it.

You miss the hunger pangs, reassuring you that what you’re doing is working. You miss the shoelaces that acted as a belt, because no belt was small enough for you. You miss shopping in the children’s section, where the jeans hugged your legs comfortably. You miss the cold, teeth chattering and body tensing up so much your bones begin to hurt. You miss the layers and layers of clothes, how they kept you warm during those cold nights. You miss people telling you, “it’s mind over matter.”

You miss the cold, teeth chattering and body tensing up so much your bones begin to hurt. You miss the layers and layers of clothes, how they kept you warm during those cold nights. You miss people telling you, “it’s mind over matter.”

You miss obsessing over other girls’ bodies, judging whether or not they do what you do, too. You miss scrolling for hours and hours, drowning your mind with images of what you want to look like – skinny. Dead.

You miss your demons.

XOXO, Ana & Mia

My Body Is A Temple

My body is a temple. One of those temples in Thailand where they let monkeys shit all over the place.

For years now, I’ve been poisoning my body with various toxins; from chemicals, GMOs, MSGs, to speed, alcohol, cannabis and whatever else is out there that I can get my hands on. I eat like shit. I don’t hydrate appropriately. I neglect my own personal hygiene. I’m way too inactive for my age. I’m constantly under stress. And I basically treat my body like a toilet you flush unwanted drugs down.

Body and mind. Mind and body. The two are much more interconnected than I’d like to believe. When my physical health lags, so, too, does my mental health; and vice versa. But what am I to do when I have a chronic, progressive, hereditary disease such as cystic fibrosis? Technically, I’m always physically ill, and always will be. There’s no cure for CF, only management. So would I always struggle with mental illness, as well? Were the last 10 years only an introduction to the life I would be living? I’ve been through enough as it is, I don’t want to go on if the rest of my life will be a mirror image – there’s no hope for me if that’s the case. But I can’t let myself think like that – I refuse to believe it. Instead, I will argue the opposite:

After my diagnosis at the age of 12, after 2 unexplained pancreatic attacks, I became extremely depressed. It hit me, like a bullet, that I would be defective for the rest of my life. That I would have to take medication multiple times a day for the rest of my life. That I would have this stupid physical therapy machine, with its stupid tubes that connect to that stupid ugly pink vest that then inflates and shakes me. Shakes me so hard that the mucus building up in my lungs can break up. Not to mention the inhaler, the inhalants, the vitamins, and the chronic digestive pain that went along with all of this.  For the rest. of. my. life. But I was the lucky one. My case was only mild. My lungs were healthy. It probably wouldn’t kill me.It was hard to see the silver lining, though. I was 12, pubescent, and now chronically ill.

My diagnosis, leading to my consequent depression, flipped my life upside down. I didn’t handle it well at all. I could have learned more about my illness, taken it more seriously, maybe saw a therapist or joined an online support group (people with CF can’t be near each other, we’re too vulnerable to each other’s germs…but it’s not contagious for those who do not have the illness). But I didn’t do any of those things. Instead, I repressed the diagnosis. Choosing not to believe it yet having to constantly manage it with meds, treatment, and doctor visits, I became angry. I became a very angry child and I hated my parents. Blamed them for it all, even though they were struggling enough as it is accepting that their only child, who was a miracle (my mom couldn’t get pregnant for years), was now sick. Forever. She might die. Life would never be the same for her.

So I was angry, and I was depressed. I turned to alcohol and drugs. I got alcohol poisoning at the age of 13, and was popping so much thizz and Adderall at one point that to this day my brain has not completely recovered. I was taking pain killers. I was combining a lot of different drugs together. Oh, and I dropped down to 93 lbs at one point, all the while continuing this lifestyle. I honestly don’t know how I survived. Of course, I deal with the health consequences now.

But that’s just it. It was the way I reacted to my diagnosis that ultimately led me to a life consumed by mental illness(es). As a consequence, I neglected my health. I didn’t do any of my treatments. I only took the most vital medications for my survival. I treated my body like shit. I cut it up, I bruised it, I starved it; I abused it. I hated myself. I hated the circumstances of my life. And I couldn’t cope with any of it.

And I still can’t. But I’m 21 now, almost 10 years later, and it’s about time I grow up and accept my circumstances, make the changes I want in my life, and start living – not just existing. Not just surviving. Living.

Life is beautiful. I am not a victim.

Consequences 

Currently dying of mild pancreatitis. I have cystic fibrosis, so its common. My health insurance cut me off this month, and there’s no way I can afford to go to the ER. I can’t get morphine to numb the pain, nor can I get the IV fluids I most likely need right now. Nope, I’m just left to suffer at home, all alone, lying in fetal position, vaping bowl after bowl to help settle the pain. My favorite cannabis club had some chronic $25/8th yesterday, so I ended up buying an oz…oops. Guess it came in handy though.

I think the little B/P sesh I had yesterday triggered this pancreatic attack, and I am so full of regrets right now. Yet, I still want to binge on more chocolate cupcakes. That’s the worst part.

I’m really struggling right now. My mental and physical health are deteriorating, and I can’t seem to take care of myself anymore. I just want to be healthy, happy. But I just keep sabotaging myself and not considering consequences before I act – or at least not taking them seriously.

My body used to be able to handle a lot. It was resilient. I was immortal. But over the years it’s grown weaker and weaker, and I can no longer endure my old lifestyle. It’s sad, because I’m only 21. Only 21 and I have some serious life choices to make; lifestyle changes, habits, thought patterns.

It could be life or death.

Hypersexuality

I lost my virginity when I was 13. Totally wish I hadn’t, as it would have saved me years of pain (emotional, that is). But it is what it is.

I was a slut. For many years. I hated myself and sought approval from others, namely men, in a desperate attempt to be loved. Even though I knew very well that love was the last thing on these guys’ minds. Most of these guys I wouldn’t even consider to shag these days; hell, most of the guys I’ve even forgotten about.

I couldn’t tell you how many men I’ve slept with. I just don’t know. I’ve tried to count before but always left more than a few names out. It was a long period of meaningless sex, mixed together with alcoholism and drug abuse. Promiscuous was my middle name.

I slept around, I cheated; I found my targets and I went in for the kill every time I was a little hungry for dick. For intimacy. For attention. The sex wasn’t even good – it fucking sucked most of the time, actually. But hey, that’s high school boys….and one DILF. Oh yeah, I was a homewrecker, too.

It was a sad life. One that ultimately left me with an STI that I had gotten, ironically enough, from one of my longest relationships. Turns out he had cheated, too. Did I have the right to be mad? No, but I was anyway.

I left this life of mindless hookups behind me, along with a number of other bad habits I had (but of course, I kept some). It wasn’t until I really got my heart fucked with – and caught that STI – that I realized the hoe life wasn’t for me anymore. I had my fun, if you could even call it that; I got it out of my system at a young age and I was ready to settle down. I promised myself I would never cheat again. I wouldn’t even talk to other men online (my generation is notorious for internet promiscuity….don’t even get me started on that).

I’d kept that mindset for a very long time and was doing fine. I didn’t really need the extra attention. Until now.

My sexuality lately has been overwhelming, to say the least. At work, I am surrounded by men and you could cut through the sexual tension with a fucking knife. I constantly find myself flirting, even with men who have girlfriends (hell, I have a boyfriend!). And as I’m actively disgusted with myself, I can’t stop. Not since the other week.

Ever since I was taken advantage of at the menu tasting by my coworker, I can’t stop thinking about him. At first I felt traumatized for what had happened – I still do, actually – but my mind has gone to a weird place. A place where I’m craving more. And I don’t know why that is. I literally can’t explain it. It’s a mixture of shame and lust. Maybe I’m a masochist.

Am I not getting enough attention at home from my boyfriend? Or was I just bored? Was it my [undiagnosed] bipolar acting up again?

These past few days, all I want to do is go around and fuck different men. I don’t want a relationship with them, I just want to know what it’s like. I just want the praise. I’m desperate for acceptance right now. Vulnerable, yet predatory. I’m at work for hours just fantasizing about all the different possibilities, and it’s sickening, quite frankly.

I want it to stop. I love my boyfriend – NOTHING is worth jeopardizing my relationship over; no one is. So how do I make the thoughts, the images, the temptations stop?

It’s strange, but sometimes, I feel like I’m on the verge of losing control. Complete control. I actually had to hold myself back yesterday from cornering a coworker and planting a fat one on him.

Maybe it’s just my period. I tend to be a raging hormonal horny bitch when Aunt Flow visits, but I don’t know, it’s over now and the tension hasn’t subsided, neither have the fantasies.

Maybe I should have quit my job when I had the chance. Maybe I really do need more time to focus on myself (and school), without the extra stress or distractions from work. But at the same time, I think work is a good thing for my sobriety (not that I’m sober, yet, but I’m trying to get there…slowly). It gives me somewhere to go, to kill time, to be productive, and most importantly, to work on my people skills. Which I desperately needed to do.

But the distractions are too much. The temptations are too much. I feel like my vagina is going to explode. Or maybe it’s my head, I don’t know.

Either way, I am seriously deficient in vitamin D.

To The Bone

So I just watched the move To The Bone, starring Lily Collins (oh my god, girl crush) on Netflix. It was brilliant. A little lighter than I would have liked (they didn’t portray the darkness of eating disorders well enough, IMO…I love that heavy shit), but nonetheless still brilliant.

It was super triggering. But then again, everything is for me – it’s my hypersensitivity, I can’t help it. So I’m sitting here now, writing this post, scrolling through my endless supply of thinspo on Tumblr. Ah Tumblr, where it all began. It’s crazy to think that 5-6 years ago, here I was doing the exact same thing. That’s how it happens, you know? You flood your mind with images of bones, of baggy clothes, and long flowing hair on tiny frail little bodies. You start obsessing about your fingers touching when you wrap your hands around your thigh. Or your arm, or your wrist. You start obsessing about the collar and hip bones that are slowly beginning to protrude. You sit there, and you take it in.

You start checking the scale every time you eat, every time you purge; every morning and every night. You check the scale when you’re sad. You check it when you’re happy. You check it when you’re bored and you check it just before you go out. You check it at the doctors, hoping they won’t say anything about how much you’ve dropped. You check it at a friend’s, who you hope doesn’t walk in on you while you’re butt naked in front of the mirror.

You check it before weigh-ins, then run upstairs to stuff weights in your underpants, put on two more pairs of pants, and run to the kitchen to drink 2 gallons of water. Check it again – phew! You’re good. No one will ever know. Those dirty little secrets, tips and tricks you keep to yourself and cherish so much. Rituals, almost. Mom walks in and checks your weight, “Good job, honey. I’m so proud of you for getting better!”

And then as she leaves for work, you brace yourself. Ready. Steady. GO! Run to the kitchen. Open every single cupboard there is – cereals, cookies, pastas, TV dinners, chips  LOTS AND LOTS OF CHIPS – and peanut butter, everything tastes good with peanut butter. ICE CREAM! Super easy to come back up.

You inhale it all in a matter of 10 minutes. You can’t even taste anything at this point, barely breathing between bites. You just stuff and stuff, until the void is filled. Then fall to your knees, crawling slowly to the bathroom, because it hurts too much to walk. You’re so full. So fucking full your stomach is literally about to burst. You made it, you can feel the cold tile floors underneath your skin. Now its the cold white porcelain you rest your head on before -OH GOD HERE IT COMES, didn’t even need a finger this time. Pouring and pouring. It all comes out, the cookies, the cereal, the chips, oh god all the peanut butter, the ice cream, the pasta – all of it. And then some more. You even get a nice hint of pink in there – blood.

You’re finished. Panting now, trying to catch your breath, you wipe your face with your foul-smelling hands, go to the sink, rinse your mouth, wash your hands, wash your face. Breath check. Breath check again. Okay, you’re good.

Time for round 2.

 

I’m a Slave 4 U

It doesn’t have to be this way. I can change, I can grow. I want to change, I want to grow. But I don’t know how. I don’t have ANY guidance other than the books I have collected over the weeks and am slowly reading through. But books alone cannot guide me through such a critical journey. I need people. I need a sponsor. I need someone who cares, someone who can push me when I need the push, and hold me when I need a hug. I need someone understanding, who understands the battle I’m fighting in my head between wanting to get better, and wanting to remain the same – stuck in the same old bad habits that have been lingering around for damn near 10 years now. I need someone who understands the complexity of addiction, as well as the struggles of borderline personality disorder. The two go hand-in-hand, and whenever my symptoms are acting up I can’t help but get high. I’m either too high or too low; too overstimulated or bored out of my mind. And if I’m neutral, which I rarely am, it’s uncomfortable as fuck and I don’t know what to do with myself because I’m so used to the extremes, so again, I go for the pipe. For the vape. For the bong. I go to the club and get an eighth, on my way home I stop at the liquor store and buy a 12 pack, or maybe a bottle of wine. Never hard liquor – not for me.

The person I am when drugs and alcohol are present in my life (so, basically, the person that I am) is someone who has no control. Someone who doesn’t care about anything, or anyone, only about feeling good. I am over-indulgent. One is too many and a thousand never enough. It’s a vicious routine, really, one made up entirely of bad habits. Wake up, refrain from smoking, cave in, smoke, eat, smoke, eat, smoke, eat, smoke, eat….all goddamn day long. Not getting anything done from my to-do list. Not showering, not brushing my teeth, Not even taking out the dog until after noon. It’s disguisting. It’s pathetic. It’s shameful. Yet, I can’t stop. I can’t help myself to the smell – oh, the sweet sweet aroma of fresh greens, or burned greens. I love it all. Just a whiff makes my entire body weak. And when I look at it, all I see are those luscious hairs, those shiny crystals, the beautiful light green or dark purple color. And I give in. I am completely powerless, completely charmed by your wicked spell.

I am a slave for you, Mary Jane.

Paralyzed

Lying in bed
Sheets over my head
Hands covering my eyes
I cry

For hours
Mentally crippled
With no motivation to move
No motivation to try

I ask myself why
Why do I feel this way inside
Why does my mind play tricks on me
And why must I always lie

I’m fine, I say
Knowing damn well the danger
Of me lying here
Just waiting to die

[Original poem by me, A.G.]

Dreams

I don’t know about you, but I am cursed with the ability to dream. Every night. And it fucking sucks. Not one night goes by where I get an actual good night’s rest, or where I’m not tossing and turning all night, or waking up in the morning drenched in sweat. My mind knows no peace. Surely not when I’m awake, and not when I’m asleep. It’s active, 24/7, and it’s fucking exhausting.

My dreams aren’t the nice ones where I go on cool adventures or meet some famous celebrity or anything like that, either. Nope. I have nightmares. Recurring. Fucking. Nightmares. Same theme, different dream.

And my nightmares are the stupid kind that fuck with my subconscious. They’re all emotional dreams, not so much physical…well, sometimes they definitely are physical. I’ve had recurring nightmares of being chased by terrorists or ones related to the ocean (I am TERRIFIED of the ocean) and tsunamis and the like, but for this post I’m going to focus on those dreams that come most often. Ones that take a knife, and drag it down along my heart slowly, letting the blood ooze out until I’ve bled to death. Those kind of dreams.

Okay, so here we go. My first real attempt at a dream journal entry.

To the best of my ability, I will try to remember what happened in my dream last night.

I’m back in highschool as a senior, its spirit day or some shit. Who knows, but its every grade against the other and each is to put on a dance. (Pretty sure this plot is based on an episode of Awkward I watched last night, LOL.) Anyway, I’d just gotten into a huge fight with my boyfriend (can’t remember about what) but I distinctively remember instigating it, telling him that if he didn’t want to be with me then he should just break up with me. Get it over with already, stop dragging me along for the fun of it when clearly things weren’t going well (and for whatever reason we couldn’t work it out). So he does, finally. He dumps my ass, and goes off with his friends, the rest of the seniors class, basically. He’s happy and gleeful, relieved to have gotten rid of my crazy, controlling, needy, sad self. Now me, I’m losing my mind at this point. I’m desperate and pathetic when it comes to abandonment, even though I instigated the break up. I’m making a complete fool of myself in front of everyone, crying about how much I love him and would do anything for him. Everyone laughs, on the inside, on the outside, to each other. I’m the class joke, and IDGAF. All I care about is getting my boyfriend back.

NOTE: I’m starting to realize that my BPD is extremelyyyyyyyyyy active in all of my dreams. Like, it is the star of the fucking show.

The bell rings and it’s time for P.E. followed by the assembly. In P.E. we practice the dance, but I lose my class the second I turn to look the other way. No clue where everyone had gone, I joined in with the next group closest to me, just watching. No way I would participate in anything at this point. I’m crushed. Pissed. Vengeful.

For some reason I’m carrying around a box of leftover food (Wtf? OH YEAH! It had just been lunch before that, or something). I put it down for a sec, and while I’m not watching, someone writes something horrible over it (I find this out later on in the dream, when the principle…who is played by my boss at work LOL…comes up to me and tells me…but we will get to that). I grab my leftovers and purse and head over the bleachers because the bell has rung once more and its time for the dances. I sit with the sophomores as the senior class goes up to perform. I see my ex (my boyfriend IRL), all his friends, and all the bitchy girls who hate me (girls never liked me much, the feeling was mutual). They all laugh. After their dance, as people cheer, the sophomores and I flip off the senior class, and I go cut in line with them when I see a friendly face…ironically enough it’s Ismael. But he doesn’t really talk to me. Weird. The vibes I’m getting from everyone is shady as fuck.

This is when the principles comes up and tells me about the mean note on my box of leftovers. Steam is coming out of my ears I’m so pissed. I find out who’d been talking all that shit, a group of girls I had beef with in middle school (weird fucking dream, man) and I go up to them and start some funk.

At this point in the dream I am aggressive as hell. The next Ronda Rousey is in the building, bitches, and she’s throwing punches left and right. Yelling absurdities and making a complete fool of myself, yet again.

And then I wake up to my boyfriend’s alarm, all shook up, ready to cry.

I woke up from that dream being the bully, but all I could feel was the shame, pain, and betrayal from my boyfriend and everyone else that hated me. I look to my right, where he is lying, and I hold back the tears. I swore he was there with me in the dream. He saw it all, he did it all. I felt a brick wall between us, and as I sit there and yawn, I try to mentally break it down and remind myself that it’s just a dream. Just another fucking dream of being cheated on/dumped. Just another dream of being the only outsider, being the only person getting harassed by her entire grade. When would the humiliation and hatred end?

I don’t know why I have these dreams so often. Bullying was an issue when I was younger (on the giving and receiving end) but it’d been years and I’d never thought it fucked with me that much. So that part I really don’t get? Looking up the interpretation:

–> To dream that you are a bully indicates your tendency to dominate a conversation, relationship or situation. You have difficulties in recognizing your weaknesses and asking for help when you need it.

–> To see a bully or be bullied in your dream signifies repressed rage. The bully may be seen as your shadow Self which you have rejected

Interesting. The first interpretation is definitely true. I do have a tendency to dominate, but I surely do know my weaknesses…a little too well. The second interpretation confuses me a little, as my rage is anything but repressed. This “shadow Self” which I’ve rejected, however, does it represent the real me that I so often reject and try to change? Or does it represent a part of me that’s begging to come out, maybe a sober part of me that I keep rejecting in order to continue getting my high, as I continue to live in sweet oblivion? I think my active addiction has a major (negative) impact on my self-esteem.

Now as for my relationship(s), I’d been cheated on by nearly every man I’d ever loved, and fucked, so yeah I have trust issues. Pretty severe ones, actually. Shit I’ll be in therapy for for years probably.

Looking up that interpretation:

–> To dream that your mate, spouse, or significant other is cheating on you, highlights your insecurities and your fears of being abandoned. You feel that you are being taken for granted. You are lacking attention in the relationship or that he or she is being less affectionate. Alternatively, you feel that you are not measuring up to the expectations of others.

–> To dream that your boyfriend or girlfriend is breaking up with you indicates that your relationship is moving to the next level. In a way, it is an end to something; you are leaving some past behind. At the same time, it is the start of something new or better. It is important to remember that such a dream is not an omen that the relationship is not working out. As a relationship evolves and grows, it also changes.

Spot on. Okay so he didn’t cheat in this dream, but he usually does in others so it’s an important interpretation. One I can’t argue with even a little. Its me, my overwhelming insecurities, and fear of abandonment that keeps bringing these dreams back. These issues haunt me in my daily life, awake or asleep, I can’t escape the fear, the intense need for love. I am never good enough. I will never be good enough. Not for him, not for me, not for anyone.

This second interpretation calms me a little, though I call bullshit. I’ve had these dreams for months now, even maybe a year, yet I don’t see a ring on my finger?? Ha!

I really don’t know how I feel about dream interpretations. Some say they can tell your future, others say they represent your past. Some say they represents your deepest desires; others your greatest fears. I think they do all of these things. But more than anything, they just plain fuck with me. Fuck with my head. Fuck with my heart. Fuck with my life. What lingers from my dreams sometimes defines my reality, because I wake up not knowing what the fuck is going on. I wake up with a heavy heart. I wake up with 100 extra pounds on my chest not knowing what to do to relieve the weight. I wake up not knowing dream from reality, or if my dreams will one day become my reality. Dear God, I hope not. Funny, isn’t it? How everyone wishes their dreams would become their reality? Not me. Not when “dreams” translate more into nightmares than anything else.

If I had one wish, I would wish to never dream again. Consider yourself lucky if you’re able to manage even just one night of peaceful rest.

Alright so maybe I do have a problem

It’s mid-afternoon,  and I’ve been drinking since noon, and smoking since I’d woken up. My stomach is so full of junk that it’s actually painful to breathe right now; I’ve been eating literally all. day. long. And all I want to do right now is rush to the bathroom, stick my finger down my throat, and purge it all up. Purge up the food, purge up the booze, purge up the shame, purge up the…regret.

Even as I tell myself that my problem is not really a problem, and I should just accept myself and my lifestyle as is and just work on my character, I’m finding that this is the norm for me. It’s a regular occurrence that I drink until I can’t walk, eat until I feel sick, and smoke until I pass out. And no matter how much I’ve convinced myself that I can break the cycle, the truth of the matter is that I can’t. Not unless I cut the cycle at its roots…and here we are back to the whole sobriety thing. *Sigh*

I hate it. I hate myself, the fact that I can’t just drink or smoke like a normal person; in moderation, in social settings, in a way that still preserves my integrity. Not me. I’m just a sad sloppy mess.

When will I accept the truth? The change that must be made but that I keep avoiding, keep putting off, keep making excuses for.

It’s just not something I can do on my own…and it shouldn’t be something anyone should do on their own.

Time for another meeting, I guess.