11/05/2001
Another Vodka Moon and I Plead Insanity
11/05/01
1:36 AM
Another Vodka Moon
It is late, my ambien has kicked in, and I should go to bed, but, being me, I’m still up, typing. I feel wrong about this whole medical withdrawal thing, like I’m scamming someone, I’m just not sure who. Like, I’m not that bad, I’m not running naked through the streets or anything, I’m just……quietly waiting for death or a really long nap, whichever comes first. I’m not sure I’ve lost my goals so much as any desire or energy to obtain them. I know I won’t always feel this way. I know I won’t always feel this way, sometimes better or worse. That’s no great secret, but just as clearly I know that I’ll feel this way again too. And I hate it. And I know exactly why that singer jumped the window out because really, sometimes, what else is there to do? If you’re relatively successful with talent and a lover and it’s great except you hate every second of it….hate is much too intense a word….dread. I dread each second I have to keep living and also I am terrified of death, or at least my lack of control over it. The doctor asked if I’d ever had those panic attacks where you think you’re dying and go to the hospital and stuff. Of course I’ve had those, I just never cared. I spent my precociously morbid childhood actively seeking out death. My best friends were ghosts and my father his hands on his throat was he trying to kill me that time? What was the intent? I recall it as a single curiously calm moment.
How can I go to bed, how can I sleep with all this in my head, it scabbles me. Tell a story, tell one story you know well….
Dear Sir,
You never got to meet my boy-friend, Shane. I miss you, and the sense of discipline you loaned my life. That was something Dennis could not offer, something no-one else has ever offered, and perhaps that is what I found intolerable. ¶ 12:13 AM
1:36 AM
Another Vodka Moon
It is late, my ambien has kicked in, and I should go to bed, but, being me, I’m still up, typing. I feel wrong about this whole medical withdrawal thing, like I’m scamming someone, I’m just not sure who. Like, I’m not that bad, I’m not running naked through the streets or anything, I’m just……quietly waiting for death or a really long nap, whichever comes first. I’m not sure I’ve lost my goals so much as any desire or energy to obtain them. I know I won’t always feel this way. I know I won’t always feel this way, sometimes better or worse. That’s no great secret, but just as clearly I know that I’ll feel this way again too. And I hate it. And I know exactly why that singer jumped the window out because really, sometimes, what else is there to do? If you’re relatively successful with talent and a lover and it’s great except you hate every second of it….hate is much too intense a word….dread. I dread each second I have to keep living and also I am terrified of death, or at least my lack of control over it. The doctor asked if I’d ever had those panic attacks where you think you’re dying and go to the hospital and stuff. Of course I’ve had those, I just never cared. I spent my precociously morbid childhood actively seeking out death. My best friends were ghosts and my father his hands on his throat was he trying to kill me that time? What was the intent? I recall it as a single curiously calm moment.
How can I go to bed, how can I sleep with all this in my head, it scabbles me. Tell a story, tell one story you know well….
Dear Sir,
You never got to meet my boy-friend, Shane. I miss you, and the sense of discipline you loaned my life. That was something Dennis could not offer, something no-one else has ever offered, and perhaps that is what I found intolerable. ¶ 12:13 AM
