Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

“My breath is being forced down my esophagus and into my stomach, where it’s keeping my bubbling guts company as I choke on another dozen pills.”

I had the rights words.

Sweetling, they were here,

Careful carved into

The chalky remains

Of my soiled soul.

The perfect combination,

Equal parts desire and guilt,

Cloaked in the allure

Of a better tomorrow.

If you had waited,

Just through today,

I swear I had it all.


If you ever find yourself

In my tomorrow,

I know my words

Will still be there.

So please, listen,

Because I know,

Once you hear them,

You’ll know it too;

That these words for you

Would have been

The right words

To make you stay.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Poetry, The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

It’s not Hell on Earth, it’s just Hell.

“People can break into pieces, and every single one of those pieces still has enough of us to feel, enough of us to love, enough of us to break again…We may only have 1 life to live, but in that life, a person can die more than once.”

I tried to wash this all away in a rush of pills and alcohol. It was one mistake to match every other mistake I’ve ever made, and all to soon I hit the bottom of every bottle within arm’s reach. The only thing worse than hitting rock bottom, is hitting rock bottom to fast. I’m already out of options, but the drugs haven’t taken full effect. I’m still capable of thinking and feeling, and since I am already at the bottom, I have nothing left but time.

Time is the enemy here; it always has been and always will. I’m at the bottom, but time followed me down, so now all I can do is wait. And waiting is the worst. I’m just waiting for the pills to poison my blood, light a fire under my skin that demands release. I’m just waiting for the alcohol to flush away any lingering, rational thoughts, leaving me to choke on sour breath and unvoiced regrets.

Yes, it’s all a waiting game now, the only game I seem to know how to play, and the only game you never have a chance to win. Every second I’m left waiting for the high to rip away my senses, a palpable fear filters its way into the cracks of my remaining humanity. I’m trapped in this crumbling reflection, and its hell. This is the lowest level of hell. This is the boiling sulfur, fire and brimstone, pray to your God and every God for just a shred of mercy, type of hell.  

Yet, through it all, time still crawls forward, and it drags my sorry ass out of that pool of fear and into an Ocean of nothingness. I blink up at the sky and wonder if I’ve gone blind, because whether my eyes are open or closed, everything looks the Goddamn same. I try to listen for something familiar, but as I strain my ears, I realize I can’t even sense a whisper from this saltwater room. I want to lift my head up, or sit up, or just wiggle a toe, but this saltwater is binding my exposed skin to the unshifting brine. I am trapped, and for a split second, the fear I’ve been swallowing swells, eclipsing my everything, and nothing exists outside of this gaping mouth of hopelessness that stands ready to swallow me whole.

But that second passes, and I’m just alone. I’m alone, without even my own thoughts for company. Nothing can reach me here, at the bottom of my upside-down Sea. Nothing can touch me, or burn me, or scare me. Nothing can choke me, or poison me, or rip me apart. Nothing can hurt me, because there’s nothing left in this world to hurt, because I made sure, I made damn sure, that I left myself nothing…

And even with nothing…I still wake up.

I know it wasn’t just a bad dream. I know that hell, that fear, that painful absence of any hope… I know they are all very real…but every time I do this, I still wake up.  

I know enough about my own shitty person to know how much is too much, and I stop short of pulling the trigger every time. Every stupid time. Every single stupid, fucking chance I give myself to get out, I fucking stop short! I’m right there! I can fucking see the end RIGHT FUCKING THERE! BUT I CAN’T DO IT! I CAN’T FUCKING DO IT! I CAN’T!!!!!

…I can’t do it…I should do it…I want to do it…but I can’t do it…

And it hurts…it hurts so goddamn much…

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

WordPress saved my life

This blog has meant the world to me. I’ve only been doing this for a few months, and it’s not very big, but just having a place to let my thoughts leak out, without having to hold back, is keeping me alive.

I started a new job on Monday, because I had a mental breakdown at my old job a month ago. I have never been a stable person, but like most people with anxiety and depression I have fought to keep it from showing. I made an extra effort at work, because I’m embarrassed by the whole thing.

But I had a bad beginning to 2018, and I got carried away one night. I took far to many sleeping pills along with far to many drinks. My neighbors found me right outside my apartment, lying face down in a pool of vomit. My arms and legs were cut to shreds, and my left arm was marbled purple and swelled to twice its normal size.

I spent 3 days in the hospital. These were workdays too, so I had to call off. I didn’t know how to explain any of this to my boss, but she’s amazing and nice, so I tried.

I failed.

I broke down in tears within the first 10 seconds on the phone, and after 10 minutes of that she told me to just email her.

3 days passed, and I was released. I had a broken arm, and my stomach had been pumped so I felt like shit, and to top it all off I left scars in places I couldn’t hide. See, when I take my clothes off I look insane, just leftover lines everywhere, but I could hide most of them. Even new ones I made, they just overlapped old ones, and it was all hidden. But I couldn’t hide these not from anybody.

I couldn’t go back into work. I couldn’t. I spent 2 more days doing nothing but crying, dreading the end of the weekend and my return to work.

Monday morning came and it all sank in; I couldn’t go.

I emailed my boss, turned off all my electronic devices, and disappeared for a week. Well more like hibernated. But even that’s wrong, because I didn’t sleep.

For 1 week I didn’t set foot outside of my apartment. I never got on my phone or computer. I never left for food or anything else. I talked to no one. I never opened my blinds. I sat in the dark, taking just enough pills in timed intervals to keep me from feeling or thinking without going to far. I didn’t want to go to the hospital again.

After that week I made a return to the world, albeit through the internet. Specifically I wrote something and posted it here, to my blog. And people liked it, some commented on it. I love getting comments. Everyone here is nice, but even if the comments weren’t nice I would be okay with that. Just putting my thoughts out to someone…it really does save me.

So now I have a new job. Nothing fancy, just something to pay the bills. And I have this blog. Again, nothing fancy, but it’s somewhere I can be myself.

So thank you to everybody who reads my blog, or doesn’t read my blog, because I enjoy reading other peoples blogs even if they aren’t reading mine. The internet isn’t real life, but I only feel alive through this site. Is that sad? Bad? Pathetic? Probably all of that and more, but I don’t care.

Thank you everybody, please keep reading and writing, and if you have any suggestions for writing topics or story ideas, or critiques of my other posts, please don’t hesitate!  

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., The Modern Classics, Uncategorized

I’m only wearing these emotions. It’s all painted on passion, washed away during any rainy day.

It eats away at you from the outside in, or the inside out, or whatever fucking way makes sense to you. Honestly, it doesn’t mean a fucking thing, how this world breaks us. In the end, it doesn’t matter how a soul is ripped apart, because nobody has time to spare grief for another person’s pain when they have their own crumbling galaxy to pathetically hold on to.

I’m nothing but the ideas others project onto me, and so I’ve gotten into the habit of letting people down in the smallest of ways so they start to think of me as unreliable. At this point though is it really an act? That’s the question I have to answer now.

~Am I really just pretending to be this terrible, or was I always this way?~

Better yet, does it matter if I am doing this on purpose or not? I’m still fucking up..

So that’s it huh? I have been acting like a fuck up so people have reasons to hate me, but from the very start it didn’t matter what my motives were for acting the way I did…I was making the choice to let others down, so I was/am a piece of filth.

I want to go home.

But home is now the bottom of a bottle of pills that leave my stomach a mess and my mind a mashup of lost thoughts and incomplete dreams.

So what did home used to mean to me? How is it that I’m able to walk up a flight of stairs and put on a smile, tell a few jokes, laugh like I’m okay, then walk back down those stairs and know I’m seconds away from cutting my arm wide open?

I can spend a beautiful Friday afternoon playing catch with a funny friend, making jokes, dancing like an idiot, eating good food and having a good time, and the second I leave to head off on my own, I feel so fake I have to hit my head against my window, and I’m drained to the point where I sleep for 16 hours after taking another bottle of pills to silence my fucking demons..  

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Uncategorized

I know the right steps to take, and spending a week in the hospital because I downed to many prescription pills is not one of those steps. So why did I just do that?

Why would things have to turn out like this, huh? Can anyone give me an answer that would calm me down, turn my radical sense of self-loathing into a more calm, rational sense of mild self-hatred? I am aware; I am a creature of habit. I fall into the holes of life not because of poor luck or blind circumstance, no… I fall down because I am waiting for those around me to see that I am on the ground and for them to hold out their hands for me, so I can climb on their backs and have them carry me through life. A scathing self-analysis, but an accurate one.

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Uncategorized

The twinkle in her eyes isn’t from stardust or diamonds or pearls; Her eyes shine from her own wonder, her curious nature for everything around her.

She is not a star, some solar entity floating in space, whose light takes lifetimes to reach those around her. She is home, in that comfortable sense of belonging to something that means everything. She is the familiar creak of decade old stairs in the way her smile crinkles around the edges of her mouth, she is both the soft touch of pillows you used to build forts with siblings and the firm cushion that captured so many tired tears…

A stare from her is the reflection you saw in the mirror when you were 10, before the world and the nightmares turned all thoughts dark and your image into a shadow, something to be feared and despised. She isn’t…she wasn’t just some pretty face, some human body to pass the time with, to float through life with. She was…brilliant in how she tricked a boy into loving himself, into thinking he had a real shot..I can never hate her…I can never hate anybody because she made me focus on me..and now I can’t look away, but I don’t like what I see..and she isn’t here to quell my demons, and I’m so tired of living in the dark…I’m tired of fearing death and fearing life, of being empty of anything aside from fear..I’m running on autopilot, and I just can’t do this anymore..I need someone to save me..somebody please tell me they can save me..

Posted in My life - Written by God, produced by 21st Century middle America, and lived by me, myself, and I., Uncategorized

I tick away the time, peeling back the skin on my fingers, bleeding all over the pages of this brand new journal. I have a mechanical pencil with an abundance of .07 lead, but I still chose to write my story in red?

Take nothing for granted and keep your eyes focused on the future, so things like student loan debt and a terrible job market won’t swallow you whole. The thing is I don’t have it that bad. I have a pretty stable job, with plenty of potential for growth (which means more money). I am paying off my loans while living in an upscale, 1 bedroom apartment in a nice city. I have a new(er) car, cool guitar, full 88 key keyboard, and a computer that any fan of MMORPGs would kill to have. It’s all right here, and I’m right here, sitting in this comfy computer chair, listening to Yiruma’s greatest hits, sipping on bottled water and snacking on orange slices. My dishwasher just finished it’s cycle, so I have clean dishes. Since I’m getting up to put the dishes away I might as well put my laundry from the washer into the dryer, because of course my bathroom also has it’s own washer and dryer. When that’s done I think I’ll spend a few minutes on my patio. It’s cold out, so I’ll just quickly open my sliding glass door and sit in my lawn chair for a few moments while I watch the water from the fountain that’s still running in the pond outside my second story window. I’ll come back into a room that’s a comfortable 68 degrees Fahrenheit, because I turned the heat on weeks ago – it’s Winter in Ohio, so I’m just glad I got to put that off until Late November. A knock on my door indicates my pizza has arrived, so I get up and greet my usual delivery man, giving him a $5 tip because I know what it’s like to be working in food service, and my income allows me those small pleasures that I know many, many others do not have, so really I don’t think I should be giving out such large tips on such small orders I make so often.

But I do.

And it hits me.

I’m clearly taking this all for granted. My eyes aren’t focused on the future. My eyes are focused on those pills sitting on my kitchen counter, but they also keep sneaking peeks at the large kitchen knife, freshly sharpened right next to them. My student debt and job prospects aren’t threatening to swallow me whole, not even close. So why do my arms look like this? Why do my legs, thighs, waist, hands, feet…why does my body look like this? Why is my stomach all over my tiled bathroom floor, porcelain toilet seat, still running faucet? Why is this screen showing me nothing but a scene out of horror movie, and why is this screen in my bathroom? Ah…of course…you idiot, that’s a mirror…of course, of course, OF COURSE!!!! HAHAHAHA OF COURSE IT IS, YOU FUCKING MORON! WHY AM I LIKE THIS?!







~I don’t have that answer. But maybe…another pill…another cut…maybe just one more, and maybe it will finally kick in…and I’ll be swallowed whole…