I need to know something, and I’m afraid I have to ask you, reader, because thus far all inquiries to deities have been ignored or simply perished within the tilted halls of my mind, and searching within myself has conjured up little to no response.
I have to know, reader, whoever you may be: When will I learn?
When will I cease this path of self-destruction I seem so adamant upon walking? Will it be when I breathe my final breath, or worse, send someone else to their grave or gaudy urn?
I get upset when I accidentally take a bug’s life. Why do I have such little regard for my own?
I am not suicidal by any means — not anymore. My obsessive fear of death has (thankfully) been subdued, if only because of recent drama in my life. I hate drama that is not on a stage, but perhaps that is/was all I need/needed to quit living in my head so much, even when I was around others.
But I am afraid (ha, excellent choice of words) I have a new fear: losing my freedom. I have already learned this lesson, yet here I am in the same metaphorical boat yet again, only the consequences I face are much more real and terrifying. I am an adult now, but am I really?
I decided, on a whim, to travel to Canada to support my good friend’s original play which is taking place today, tomorrow, and the day after. I have the means to do so. Yet, due to my current situation, I am unsure if this is a wise decision to make, as it may appear that I am fleeing the country, and the last time I entered Canada the police falsely suspected me of smuggling drugs. I was eighteen, petrified, and just wanted to see my girlfriend again.
Now, I want to see all of the friends I had to leave behind three years ago, but I’m afraid I’ve sullied that, too. So tell me, reader, when will I learn?
I think all of the trauma I have been through recently is finally catching up. I am a strange individual; when chaos or tragedy faces me, even something joyous, the reality and gravity of the situation almost never hits me until at least a month or so later. I do not understand why. Perhaps this is a coping mechanism. Perhaps it’s the way my brain was formed, or perhaps it’s the damage I’ve caused to my brain by all of the chemicals I’ve forced into my body. Either way, the break up, the confession, the insults, the rings, the heartache, the xanax, the crushes, the hospital, the operation my mother had, the loneliness, the worry over myself and my friends, and the arrest is weighing down upon me, finally, when I was as cool and collected as I could be.
I dislike being emotional. However, I know I am going to have to give in at some point, if only for my sanity.
I just keep telling myself, over and over, the same five numbers: Two, four, six, zero, one. These numbers have the greatest of meanings for me; they shall always remind me to be a better person, to own up to my mistakes, to love my fellow woman and man, and maybe one day, myself.
Now I have to cheer myself up. Fett’s Vette by MC Chris should do the trick.
Annnnd now, I shall look up reputable tattoo parlors. Here, and in Vancouver.
