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War All The Time
|What It Is To Burn
|The Georgia heat sticks to you like a fly to the tape. It gets inside your head, under your skin, and seeps into your blood. I spend my nights more awake than I am during most of the day. For months, if not years, I have been unable to achieve anything remotely resembling a normal sleep pattern. The nights roll into mornings. The sun shines, the birds sing, the motions of modern life begin once again.|
The medication I was put on to supplement my current regime has failed me miserably. I want to vomit. I swear I have the flu. Fuck this. Trash.
I go to the doctor’s office. I am sitting in the car in the parking lot outside listening to music, waiting for my appointment to start. It makes me uneasy sitting in the waiting room, mainly because of the fact that the waiting room consists of a cramped hallway that is filled with other people even more fucked up than myself. I am sitting in the front passenger seat. People begin to walk out of the building. More and more people. More people. They just keep coming. More people. There must be one hundred two hundred a lot of fucking people standing outside. I hear sirens. The people talk in excited voices. A behemoth of a fire truck arrives on the scene. There does not seem to be any panic, no general concern, more so curiosity and aggravation at having their daily patterns altered by whatever situation has arisen. I haven't a clue as to what is prompting this evacuation. I do not care. I watch the people. The nurses. Some are cute. Some are not. Old men. People in wheelchairs. I do not care. I turn the music up louder. The windows shake. I close my eyes. Finch. What it is to burn.
It appears that you have let me down for the last time. She was right, whoever she was. I deserve better. I deserve something real. It is hard for me to think of somebody in my life as unreliable as you. Disappointing, maybe, but I expected other people to fuck up, not you. All of this time invested, me sitting around like some dependent fuck, waiting on what? What do I have to show for any of it? I suppose that is what I get for letting my guard down and trying to put my faith in somebody. You appear briefly, telling me that you were avoiding my calls because you were afraid of what I might say. What the fuck is that? A relationship of any kind is built on solid communication, and I have to say that you fail miserably at it. Maybe you are a liar maybe you are afraid maybe you are simply a bad person who has no problem toying with the emotions of others. You give me excuse after excuse of why you have yet to follow through with your plans to come spend time with me. I offer to come see you, even though I am a walking disaster. You say it is a great idea. You say you will pay for the plane ticket. You say it will all work out.
Then you fucking disappear. You fucking disappear. Goodbye.
There is nothing irreplaceable about another person at twenty-two years of age. I will value some individuals more than others. Some will mean everything to me. Most will mean nothing. They will come and they will go. They are all replaceable. It is a difficult if not nearly impossible task finding these replacements, but I promise you, they are out there. They are out there and I will never stop looking for them and I will find them and I will be fucking happy.
I am not angry, I rarely get angry. I am let down. I am sad. I am sorry, for myself. I had painted some sort of holier than thou image of you on a canvas in the back of my mind. That is why I kept waiting. It was all going to work out and it was all going to be worth it. Wrong.
I will take our list of things to do, and I will do them regardless of you being there or not. I will do them with somebody else. I will do them by myself. I will do them.
You have chosen to be a spectator rather than a participant. Your choice, my dear.
The only way to forget someone is to find somebody new.
|Tags: journal, blog, personal, life, fire truck, drugs, goodbyes, hope
|Today I started a new medication. It is used primarily to treat bipolar disorder. I have not been diagnosed as being bipolar. Supposedly, this will help with my feelings of uneasiness and hopefully let me sleep better. Lately, I have been getting no more than three hours of sleep at a time.|
The drug does not sit with me as well as I had hoped. I want to throw up. I am dizzy. My skin tingles. I want to fucking throw up. I really want to fucking throw up. What am I getting myself into this time why isn't this getting any better why does it never ever fucking work.
The withdrawal from my other medication is beyond horrible. It is not even worth trying to describe anymore. Please, unless your life is in danger, do not let anyone convince you to take antidepressants.
I have a lot of things to say to you, but I do not know if this is the appropriate place to do so. You have made it almost impossible to have a conversation lately. I have a hard time believing you.
There are others who would gladly pick up where you seem to have left off.
Think about that.
|Tags: journal, blog, personal, life, drugs