journal

Rock Bottom

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For the last few months I’ve been stuck in this horrible limbo of giving up on life and not quite giving up on life. And I honestly thought that no one out there would be able to comprehend such a static way of living until I met my friends. And with these friends, I went out with during the entire weekend, drinking heavily, snorting a lot of cocaine and sleeping very little each night. Before finding myself in the exact same position on Monday morning, feeling much worse for it all. I was now broke, both financially and emotionally.

The days after was filled with avoiding my bank statements which continued to decline in 100s. I was minus 200 one week and then minus 500 the next. Emotionally, my depression was reaping havoc on my days and the sister of depression – suicidal ideation would pop it’s ugly head and whisper sweet nothings into my ears. And all the while, I saw nothing intrinsically wrong with my life.

But I do remember one morning telling my friends that maybe I was developing a terrible drug habit, that my bank account was empty and that I had accumulated this horrible debt that never stops hanging over me like a black cloud over my head. And what did they do? They laughed at it all as if I was insane. Saying that their addiction was worse than my own as I only went on a gram binge every weekend, that my 700 pound debt was nothing, I’ll eventually get out of it.

So, instead of feeling insulted, I just felt like I was going insane. That my method of getting out of rock bottom was working. To drink more, snort more, smoke more, sleep less, care less and strive for less. All of which was the perfect antidote.

But I’ll tell you something now, it never was.

Hitting rock bottom is this funny thing. I thought you’d know when you reached it. When you felt the fiery ground at your feet is when you went into a sudden but cleansing mental breakdown. Kind of like a volcanic eruption, that bathes the foundation in its destructive upbringing ready for something new.

But no, it can be quite different. Quite deliberate in its torture of you. You can feel the cold ground of the bottom glazing the soles of your feet, your entire body submerged in this icy water, your nose just sticking out slightly to sniff the snow. Your organs frozen, your heart gripped in a damaging growth and your brain deteriorating slowly but surely. You can be ready to cry for help but for what? How can you explain the numbness to another, how easily and ready you are to go into a slumber. That you haven’t been fully awake for days, for months. It’s horrible. It’s how my life has been.

And I don’t know how to get out.

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moments, Poetry

Meeting CharlieĀ 

Dear  Charlie,

we are born into this world on someone else’s terms. Then we are expected to manage its monstrosities, feeding from the hand that they give us.

But if those who birth us tube down our throats that we are nothing but selfish, lazy and ungrateful we are painted the toxic view of the world from that point forward.

We are made to breath down these negative spirals and believe them to be the truth.

However, every time I meet you Charlie, hunched over a card in the bathroom stall of a club vibrating the stench of sweaty bodies and rotten feet, I smile. You make me happy again. You awake my tired body and exalt it with joy, putting a spring in my step as gibberish leaks itself away from my mouth into the atmosphere. You help me to believe in myself and rein my own destiny, a throne in my future.

And then, as suddenly as you come, you disappear again. Hanging me by the arms of a noose, lowering my depraved mass into the body of a dark, dismal well.

Only for me to look up and pray your glorious snow will fall onto me again. Bringing with it you, my dear Charlie, with all your wonderful and splendid hopes, dreams and promises.

Missing you,

the grin of a lost girl
nakedstreetkid out x