Bottles.

I live in bottles. 

That phrase has been bouncing around my brain for the last 48 hours. I’ve been mentally.. narrating my life, or something, since my last post. I’ve been conscious of the fact that I’ve wanted to write something, but until today, I literally lacked the ability. I fell into – practically tripped and landed face first with my arms full of sharp objects – a horrible depression. It was sudden and unexpected.

Sometimes the depression creeps. It rolls in like a fog. This was a summer thunderstorm. It came out of nowhere, the rain of shame torrential and stinging my skin. The lightning flashed – I was blinded – the thunder shook my bones – I was terrified. So what did I do?

I got drunk. Didn’t take my medication, because I’m not supposed to take my medicine with alcohol. Just.. bad. Made bad decisions, hated myself. Cried and wandered the streets because I was too drunk to drive. I ended up on my friends couch with a pounding headache and a stomach clenched with regret. I had an intense 12 or so hours. And after that, I got in my bed.

I stayed in my bed.

I thought.

And you know what I thought?

I live in bottles.

Pill bottles, bottles of alcohol, bottles of makeup. Bottles of water, bottles of lotion, bottles of nail polish. I dwell in glass receptacles, plastic containers, delicate vases of storage.

These bottles run my life.

They make me stumble, they open up my mouth, they take off my shirt. They let me color inside the lines, they refine my appearance. I paint and prod and slurp and gulp, I depend on these bottles. Without these bottles, I lack things.

I lack sanity.

I lack numbness.

I lack a sense of self.

I. Hate. That.

I refuse to believe that I am 21 years old and already dying before I’ve even started living. I refuse to think that I am wasting away my life and my body, that I am painting myself for the war that our society wages on me and thousands maybe millions of people just like me. I fucking hate those bottles. I hate drinking. I hate depending on the 30 mg of this, the 100 mg of that just to function.

I gave myself a tattoo. (Bear with me here; this is not a random transition. Well, it is.. but just wait. I’m going somewhere with it.)

I gave myself a widdle stick and poke tattoo on my wrist. I’ll include a picture. I’m quite proud of it and what it means:

tattoo

It means I’m not giving up. It is just four, small circles. Which is why I did it myself. Don’t worry, I sterilized the needle, used clean ink, blah blah. Also, I’ve been slicing myself open for over five years and I’m not dead yet. I don’t see how poking holes and adding ink is going to make a different.

Anyway. Moving on.

It means I will not give up. My boyfriend keeps telling me: your past is your past. And I know that. I know the past is the past. Duh. It can’t be anything else.

But.

I realized he said that because the past is why I live in bottles. I escape to bottles of rum and vodka because that is my “fail-safe” way of numbing myself. It’s the way I “deal” with things. I crave those white tablets out of the green pill bottle because that is my past. My past is creating my own oblivion and disappearing into it when I don’t feel safe. My past is a fucked up sexual development and a stymied sense of who I am. That sounds cheesy as fuck, but I don’t know. Hence the bottles of makeup.. the cover up, the enhancing solutions. I don’t know who I am, so I create it. I create myself and so far I haven’t liked it.

I’ve been floating from break down to break down. I claw my way out of the black turmoil that is depression, and those first few breaths of calm are heaven. The first few hours out of the blackness are bright, they are beautiful. My vision is crisp, smells and sounds are vivid, bright, intoxicating. I’m fucking alive.

Until I’m not.

Oh, right, so the arrow?

I am moving on. Time goes on whether I want to die or I’m flying high. (Ha, I’m a fuckin’ poet, and nobody likes a sentence that doesn’t end as they POTATO.) Days pass. Hours fade. Life slowly dwindles away. And while those precious grains of sand are sinking through the hourglass, what am I doing?

I’m fucking sniveling. I’m whining. I’m drinking myself into a stupor because I made a mistake.

Are you fucking kidding me? 


Twenty-one years old, and dying.

So I’m stopping. I’m climbing out of the bottles – all of them – except the necessary ones. I will take my medication. I’m going to go to class. I’m going to fucking succeed, because at the end of my life, I’m still going to be here. I’m still going to be me. I don’t want to look back on this time and regret everything that I’ve wasted. I refuse to regret any more because I’ve done enough for a couple lifetimes. (Speaking of lifetimes, I’m pretty sure I used to be a cat. As in, a past life. If those are real, I was definitely a cat. I’ll talk about that another time though. Cos I think my original line of thought was rather serious.)

Ahem.

Constellation. Arrow. Bottles. Right.

I am moving forward. I understand this disorder is not going to go away. I have over the last year watched myself – as if from a third person viewpoint – go up, down, way below down, when-the-fuck-is-she-going-to-stop-down, and then all the way back up and beyond up. I’ve wanted to die. I’ve hated myself. I’ve cried and cried and cried.

I fucking hate crying.

It hasn’t fixed a damn thing. The alcohol and pills.. I wasn’t managing shit. All I was managing was to keep fucking up my life. I admitted to my best friend my methods of “sanity” haven’t exactly been working. They’ve been.. maintaining? I’ve been coasting. I’ve been making excuses.

I feel like that opiate addiction commercial, because this is my moment. This is the moment that I decided I’m better than this. Yes, I have a mental illness. Yes, I am an addict. But I refuse to lose.

Sigh.

Have you had enough cheese with your whine tonight? Because I feel like that post was the equivalent of a ninety-cheese macaroni with a bottle of Bitchey. (If you say that with like, a French accent, I think it makes it kind of funny.)

In the end, I want to finish this post by repeating the first sentence, with a tiny itty bitty baby tweak.

I lived in bottles.

I lived in bottles for over half of my life.

And never once did I meet a genie. Boy, did I get gypped.

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Fell off the earth.

I was gone for a bit. Not on purpose, but mostly because I find it difficult to write lately. I’ve struggled with my news stories and putting down any kind of written word, fact or fiction. Anyway.. it’s spring break now. I’m in Louisiana with my boyfriend. I have to leave tomorrow to go back home, and I hate it. I hate leaving him, but I honestly feel like he might be ready to be alone again.

I don’t know why I get that feeling, but I do.

Today was wonderful. Actually, the whole weekend with him has been pretty great. He was recently switched to nights (11pm-6am) and it actually worked out in our favor. We hang out, he goes to work around 11, I stay up for a while, fall asleep, he comes back between 3 and 6. Not bad, cos then we both go back to sleep and wake up around noon or so and do things until he goes back to work at 11. Today we went to the boardwalk for dinner and it was just really nice. It’s been chilly while I’ve been here but today it happened to be sunny and the wind died down so it was really beautiful. We ran errands, walked around the boardwalk.. it was great. I forget how playful he can be but days like today remind me.

Sigh.

Honestly, I wish I didn’t have to go back home. Friday night we went to his friend’s house (a married couple.) They just found out they’re going to have a baby, and they’re pretty excited about it. They’ve been trying for a long time. As much as I don’t really care to have a family just now, I wish I could get married. I wish I could marry him and move down here. I’d be content seeing him every day, even if he wouldn’t want to see me every day. I miss him so much when I’m away, but it somehow seems I miss him even more when I’m with him. I’m a thinker.. I just think too much. When I’m here, I think about leaving. When I’m gone, I think about being away from him. So in all reality I just miss him all the time.

I’ll write more later when I get back home, but for now I’m going to curl up in his bed and read some more Harry Potter. I’m reading the fourth one again. I tend to start with the fourth one and read through to the seventh. I don’t like reading the first three for whatever reason. It might be that I’ve already read them so many times. I’ve read the first through fourth tons of times and the fourth through seventh tons of times, but I enjoy the latter half better. The first through third is just.. ugh. I can practically quote the entire books haha. I’m a Potterhead. Oh well.

Back into the Goblet of Fire we go, time for the Yule Ball! Good night.

Busy busy.

Oh so busy. I’m the White Rabbit, can’t be late, can’t be late for a very important date. 

I can sense a pattern forming.. something slowly creeping out of my mental fog. But it isn’t developing fast enough, there no clear silhouette for me to make out. 

It’s coming.. coming, oh so slowly. I just have to s l o w d o w n enough to read between the lines and make out what the voices are saying. 

Gotta slow down, slow down and quit moving stay still just for a second. 

Just for a second, need to stop and reevaluate. 

Take a step back and look at the facts, just the facts ma’am.

The problem is I’m not sure if what’s coming is reinforcements or more enemy forces. Is it support, or is it another demolition team? What’s happening to the infrastructure, people? Who’s in charge around here? 

Gotta wait, gotta wait and see. Stop and think, look back and reflect. 

Take a breath, we’re so busy we can’t even see straight. It’s coming whether you like it or not, brace yourself! 

Get money or die trying.

“If you’re going to be crazy, you have to get paid for it or else you’re going to be locked up.” 
― Hunter S. Thompson

Oh, Hunter S. Thompson. You have it right, good sir. But since I’m not getting paid, should I be locked up? 

My worst fear has always been a tie between drowning and dying in a fire. As a child, I mentally cataloged my possessions and decided which ones were worth grabbing if I had to escape a burning house. I chose my favorite books, the Korean music box my grandmother gave me, maybe some of my porcelain dolls. Never more than I could carry easily, though. I knew if I took too many items, none of us would make it out. 

As an adult, though, I think my worst fear is being put away. My worst fear is having a psychotic break and crossing that delicate line that exists between my bipolar II and the hospital. My worst fear is for people to truly see what I’m like. I know drinking and drugs doesn’t exactly slow that process though. So essentially, I feel like I’m lighting the fire and locking myself in. 

Confession: I barely remember writing the last post. I read through it today, and I just said.. “shit.” Because I couldn’t remember writing it. I vaguely remember the words “pills, alcohol, nicotine, pills, alcohol, nicotine” running laps around my brain, but that’s all. 

Every spring comes around and I seem to fall off the cliff, the wagon, the anything that might have been supporting me. It’s just gone, poof, the rug pulled out from under my feet. (Although, in reality, I see it coming. I feel the change, I see the signs.) But it’s still a surprise, still an unwelcome house guest crawling into my bed with me.

As badly as I’m trying to stay balanced, I’m trying just as hard to unbalance myself it seems. That sentence was hard to word, and I can’t find a better way to say it, especially since my mind’s just.. busy right now. Busy being dulled by alcohol. Sigh. 

I just want to laugh. Or cry. Or both? Or neither. I don’t want to do either, because I find neither relieving. Neither are a cathartic experience, so it would be pointless to engage in either action. I guess I should probably try to sleep, although the caffeine from the coke will probably prevent that. 

I’m just have a proclivity for self-sabotage, it seems. I’m considering going to NA meetings up here, but I honestly don’t know how much good that would do me. It’s not like I can talk about my issues aloud anyway, hence the reason I hate going to therapy. 

This post started as maybe something worth reading, but now I’ve wandered off on a tangent that renders this practically pointless. We were on the yellow brick road, now we’re stuck in the fields full of poppy seeds, getting lulled to sleep by the scent of potential heroin with no one to wake us up. 

Sigh.

If only ruby red slippers could help me out. I’d buy them in a heartbeat because, damn, I really LOVE a hot pair of heels.

 

Fuck.

Pills.

Alcohol.

Nicotine.

More pills.

What have I done with myself?

I’ve failed, and I’m refusing to see it.

My body is afloat in the sea of surrender, and I don’t have the energy to try to keep my nose above the water.

Pills.

Alcohol.

Pills.

More alcohol.

Guilty, frustrated, lost, blank. Numb. Nothing. I can’t feel anymore. After wanting so much, wanting so badly to be fine, I’ve concluded: I won’t be.

I am lacking an instrumental component to be truly sober and sane.

There is something fundamentally wrong in my psyche and I can’t find it. I dig and dig but only hit nerves, striking new movements and new urges. I bury myself under neurons and firing synapses, losing consciousness in the club after the first taste of Oxy in years.

Alcohol on my tongue, burns on the way down. Fills my stomach with something close to satisfaction, closer than I’ve had in weeks.

The razor bites my hip, grips the skin and splits it open, pouring out the proof that I am alive, that I am a real human being.

Just drunk, drunk constantly and not wanting to feel. No motivation, nothing left. Drained without even the energy to attempt to kill myself.

I’m broken, broken and irrational. I need a stone, I need my rock. I need gravity to kick back in, because currently? I’m orbiting Mars in an attempt to find someone who understands me.

I don’t know if I’m flying or sinking, or if the pills and alcohol have created the perfect storm.. the most dangerous mixed episode believable.

Surging through my veins, bleeding from my every orifice, the desire to feel.. the desire to be.

It’s denied.

Pills.

Nicotine.

Alcohol.

More pills.

Eventually, I’ll need something harder. There’s only two ways out, kid, up or down. You choose your own adventure. Up or down. Fight or die. Flight or flee. Feint or faint.

Fuck. That. Noise.

Static, white static, white noise buzzing in my ears, stinging my tongue, filling my throat. There are no words, there is no one else. It’s my, myself and I, standing in the top floor of the building wired to implode in any minute.

I am broken.

I am these things, these shards that prick and slice with every graze. I am these echoes of lost dreams, obliterated into distant memories. I am the footsteps down the hall, I am the dread as the telephone rings in the middle of the night.

I am fucked.

I am drunk.

I am high.

I am sorry.