.

It’s September ^13th, and I’ve just realised that I’ve become something that I hate.

I don’t know myself anymore. 

Me and B got into an argument this morning. Mom’s drunk ass started crying, and told us that we’re the reason why she has to take so many pills. We’re The Cause of Her Stress.

It’s not my motherfucking fault that B made me hate him. I wasn’t fighting with him to be a bitch, I was fighting with him because I’m fucking sick of this.

My life is such a fucking wreck. 

Fuck this headache, fuck the Adderall running through my system, fuck the fact that I threw up at MD’s this morning. Fuck this cup of coffee for not being warm enough, fuck this cigarette for not lighting from the intensity of my glare alone (where’s my motherfucking lighter??), fuck the fact that I got bitched at by Mom for smoking weed, even though a few hours later she smoked with me. Hypocritical wench.

….I wonder if that whole Next Year Is The End Of The World thing is legit. 2012, I mean.

I’d rather not die from, like, whatever’s supposed to happen. Not quite sure what it is, but I’m certain I’d prefer to not die that way. Just as a general rule of thumb. I mean, shit. 

I think someone should start selling suicide pills for when that day comes around. The campaign could be like: CYANIDE. For those that would rather not die from: lava/drowning/being swallowed by the earth/being crushed by a building/whatever other crazy shit could happen. Some side-effects include: foaming at the mouth and death.

And they’d find a way to zombiefy Hitler and use him as the mascot.

Motherfuckers would be a) rich and b) mass murderers c) the actual reason for the motherfucking apocalypse. Y’know, ‘cause Zombie Hitler refuses to be tamed.

Our only hope would be Chuck Norris. 

But he’d probably be one of the motherfuckers that ends up dying from the actual end of the world, cause cyanide doesn’t make him die. HE makes CYANIDE die. 

And it’s not even alive, bitches.

 Christ, I need help.

I’ve been up for two days straight and don’t feel even a little tired. Too pissed off/depressed/someotherword to sleep. 

I wish I was with MC right now. 

I wish I could tell what MD thinks when he looks at me. 

I wish I was perfect and things like this didn’t happen.

I wish, I wish, I wish.

Awesome lyric intermission:

 “I spent most of my teenage years searching for her love.

I couldn’t find it anywhere, so I turned to drugs

And after all the smoke had cleared, and it was said and done,

I found myself addicted by the age of twenty-one.”

-“The Westerner”, Falling In Reverse

I want more Adderall, I want more weed, and I want a handful of Neurontin. 

I don’t want food. I want to just drink this cup of coffee and go for a walk. I want my scale from B’s, I want a pack of smokes, and I want to get rid of this fucking headache.

I wish someone would hug me right now. 

I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to end up like Mom, desperately clinging to a man, making him her whole world, kids be damned.

“My world revolves around that man!” -Mother

There’s no room for me anywhere in her world.

What the fuck am I doing here?

Why am I not at MC’s right now?

Why am I asking myself so many fucking questions and not answering them?

Gaaah.

Sometimes I want to disappear. Not the run-away-and-change-your-name kind, though. I mean the kind where you fade, bit by bit, like all the fizzy bubbles in a can of soda.

Fizzy’s a funny word.

Matchstick> Log. I bet nobody has any idea what that means. Secret code is awesome, yo.

Mom’s smoking the last of my pot. D brought it for me, along with smokes and an Addie. He knows somebody that’s growing a bunch of White Widow and can get it anytime he wants, but I’m not planning to pick up the pothead routine again. Still, it was nice.

People give pot some awesome names. 

It’s really weird..I keep typing and all this shit’s just pouring out from some strange place in my brain.

Sometimes it seems like I’m writing happy things along with the other stuff (at least to me—everyone interprets things differently, I guess), but I don’t feel happy. 

I want so much from life. Maybe too much. I don’t know. 

I want to be happy. I want to feel like I actually fit somewhere.

In other news, if Mom doesn’t shut up about OF, I’m going to fucking scream.

Maybe I’ll scream anyway.

Nobody would really listen, though. They’d hold their hand up, tell me to Let It Go, or tell me that This Isn’t The Time.

I’m sick of being cut off from what I’m trying to say. I’m sick of being unheard. I’m sick of keeping shit bottled up inside, but I can’t let it out, not unless I want world-class dramatics from Mom. 

And I deff don’t.

Out of all the people I talk to, there are only two that I feel like I can actually talk to. They don’t push me or yell or make me feel stupid. I’m an idiot, though, because I know they don’t like it when I get fucked up like this, but I do it anyway. Why the hell do I do that? The fuck is wrong with me?

And now I’m thinking back to when MD found my //.

He curled up beside me and put his arm around my shoulders. He kissed my forehead and told me everything was going to be alright. 

I couldn’t stop crying. I wish he was like that all the time. 

I wish, I wish, I wish.

And now B’s running his mouth about him. Everytime he finds out that I have feelings for someone, he tries to tear everything apart. I’m so sick of him. I wish he didn’t exist.

I don’t want him dead, I just wish he wasn’t ever born.

God, I’m messed up.

And holy shit, I have a lot to say tonight.

Maybe I’ll start a blog again and keep it updated. Yeah, I think I will. Ladies and gents, you’re  now reading Entry Number One. Congratulations.

If someone reads it, maybe they could understand what the fuck’s wrong with me. But then again, I’m not sure I have the balls to pour all the things in my brain out into the interwebs. 

Now Mom’s saying she doesn’t give a fuck about OF. She’s Done With Him. Liar. She always does this, always bounces from love/anger/love/needy hurt/love/needy love/obsessive love/hurt/self-pity.

Somebody make it STOP.

Just make everything stop.

What’s making me this way? The Addie? My own stupid brain?

Fuck if I know.

I wonder if I’m going to die next year. I wonder if the earth’s going to explode.

I wonder if I’ll end up killing myself with the cyanide pill instead of being the apocalypse’s bitch. Wouldn’t it be so shitty if the pill worked and the world didn’t end at all?

Shitty indeed. I’d be pissed.

Y’know, if I were still alive and could actually feel pissed.

Bitches would get sued.

I wish I could sing. I wish I could draw. 

I just wish I was good at something.

I’m wide the fuck awake. My thoughts keep jumping around, like little ants.

If little ants could jump, that is. 

I’m all over the place today. I should go for a walk or something.

Instead I’m babbling on my laptop, because somehow I keep hoping that getting all these random thoughts out will help. It’s worth a shot, right?

I called my dad earlier. The conversation lasted exactly two minutes and ten seconds. 2:10. I’d bet at least half of it was nothing but awkward pauses.

I need a shower. I should stop writing, get clean, and go for a walk. 

I should, but I probably won’t. 

I think I’m still too pissed off to stop. 

I hate the word ‘nigger’. B called my boyfriend that. 

He had absolutely no problem with A, who turned out to be an abusive methhead douchebag, but god fucking forbid I date someone whose skin’s a different color than mine. MD isn’t perfect, not by a long shot, but at least he respects me. 

B sticks his nose in all of my relationships, and frankly, it’s creepy. Having been abused by him in the past, I find it hard to believe that he’s looking out for me. I don’t trust him and I can’t fucking stand him. Miraculously, he seems to have absolutely no idea why. 

Selective amnesia is awesome.

I’ve never told anyone about what he did, and I never intend to. I’m not some helpless victim. I solved the problem years ago by knocking his ass out cold, and he never tried it again. We reached the understanding that he was to keep his fucking hands off me and I moved on with my life. It didn’t leave some huge mental scar, but that’s not exactly something that can be easily forgiven and forgotten. 

So now it fucking grinds my gears when I have to be civil to him. My poor mom has no idea why I hate him so much, but I’d prefer that it stayed that way. She has a tendency to blame herself and twist things so that the focus is on her. Which is kind of understandable, I guess, given how much guilt she has over never being there for us, but it’s just not worth the drama. I could tell her a thousand times that it has nothing to do with her, B’s just a sicko, but she wouldn’t listen. She never does.

Mom wants to cook dinner for me tonight, but I don’t want to eat. And not just because of my ED—I think I actually am getting sick. I keep getting cold sweats and my stomach’s in knots. It happened the other day at MD’s and I ended up with my face in the toilet. Can’t be a drug reaction, because I was clean that night/morning. Can’t be a withdrawal, because it would’ve happened sooner. 

Sooooo….basically, I’m just sick. 

Awesome.

Lyrical intermission in 3…2…1…GO!

“When your tears are spent

On your last pretense

And your tired eyes refuse to close

And sleep in your defense

When it’s in your spine,

Like you’ve walked for miles,

And the only thing you want is just to be still for a while”

-“Beside You”, Marianas Trench

Aaaand Mom’s kissing OF’s ass again. Told you she was a liar.

I can’t help but feel like she’s choosing him over me, and she has no idea how much it hurts.

I think she’s completely blind to everyone’s feelings but his. 

My mom and I used to be really close. When I couldn’t get a bus ticket to visit a friend in another state, she offered to drive me there last-minute, despite the fact that our road was completely blocked by storm-damaged telephone poles. She talked the workers into clearing our driveway first and braved the confusing streets of Illinois in the middle of the night just to be sure that I could make it there. 

OF was pissed off that she took me. At the time, he was on the other side of the country, and sometimes I wonder if she would’ve still done it if he was home. 

It seems like when he’s here, she turns into a completely different person. She goes to work, she comes home to play housegirlfriend, she goes to sleep. That’s it. 

When he’s gone, though, it isn’t like that. We party together and have movie nights and talk about the types of guys we like. Usually, we get along when it’s just us, but lately OF’s always bitching at her on the phone and she’s too wrapped up in her spiral of a nervous breakdown to even talk about anything other than him or what he said or how ‘done’ she is. She can twist any comment I make into something that somehow insults her, and that’s usually how the fights start.

I love my mom, but I’m tired of this. 

We both have a bad temper and a self-destructive personality, and I guess we clash because we’re so much alike. When we live together, it’s almost guaranteed that there’ll be some sort of explosion, and they always end with me being told to leave.

It seems like she’s always choosing something over me. Drugs, a man, it’s all the same. It hurts just as bad.

I wish she saw that. 

Most of my life, Mom was addicted to coke, and I grew up in my grandma’s custody.

She would come to visit sometimes, but I never wanted to get too close to her, because the way she looked scared the shit out of me. 

She came over around Christmas once, and I kept bugging her to eat some cookies. I don’t know if she did or not—I think she hid them up her sleeve.

“I don’t even want to look at food,” -Mother

I learned about anorexia that night. 

She tried to explain it to me, but I didn’t understand. All I knew was that her cheeks were sunken in too far and I was hurting for her.

I should’ve learned from her example, but I didn’t. I feel stuck, and I love it as much as I hate it. I’m sure no mother wants to see their kid do these things to themselves—I sure as hell didn’t want to watch her do it--but I can’t stop.

It’s probably why she yells at me so much. I know it’s out of love, but she goes about it in the wrong way.

She flips the fuck out, which makes me flip the fuck out, which makes her flip harder, which makes me turn into a fucking bitch.

I miss being a kid. Ignorance was bliss for me.

In these past five-ish years, I’ve been overweight/healthy/secretlysick/better/secretlysicker/hospitalised/recovered/relapsed. There’ve been times that I’ve starved for days, and there’ve been times where I felt like I just couldn’t stop eating. Sometimes I can suck it up to get my family/friends off my back and sometimes I can’t.

Most of the time I just don’t fucking want to.

And the thing that really pisses me off?

The more I starve, the heavier I feel. It’s never good enough. N.E.V.E.R.

But I can’t give it up. I wish I knew why.

I wish, I wish, I wish.