The anger and bitterness are getting the best of me. My doctor switched up my meds, leaving me hypomanic–I have irritable manias instead of euphoric and figure it’s best to isolate until I feel confident I can play nice. Still, in the quiet of my apartment I seethe and simmer. I’ve burned a bridge straight to the ground and I’m not sure my dear friend will ever forgive me. I feel no regret. When at war, you have to accept some casualties.
Thirty nine, thirty nine. I’m not sure how this could possibly have happened to me. With a suicide attempt that landed me on the liver transplant list behind me and years of reeling from addiction, my doctors were sure I’d never make it to thirty. But I’m here, character flaws in proud display; look at me, I’m beautiful and human and I’ve been through the fucking wringer. I used to believe in second chances, but doubt gnaws at my heart. And if I end up with nothing? Does pure survival actually mean shit?
A kind word would soothe my broken soul. They come out of nowhere, it seems, and I’ve learned not to expect them.
When I got sober thirteen years ago, they promised me that life would be better. I’ve yet to be blessed. I wasn’t warned that the tragedies would never stop and that the people I thought loved me would drift away like ashes in the oceans. I want to apologize, to say I never meant for this to happen to me but instead of revealing gentle desolatation I am hellfire and damnation and regurgitate invidiousness. I pray for salvation but lack the required authenticity.
Still desperate to make connections…your comments mean the world to me.