Bring Me to LifePosted: May 13, 2014
I’m fucking wet. I am bitchy and pissy. I have to force myself to get out of bed in the morning, and absolutely everything bores me to tears. I want my high back. I want my drug. I want to spread my legs and be fisted and fucked. I want to be me again–I want to feel alive. I do not want to spend any more time dream walking through my days.
That is how I feel–that I might as well be asleep for all I am able to experience of life. In recovery, as in insomnia, you’re never really asleep, and you’re never really awake. I need more.
Stability didn’t do it.
Moving from a hell hole into a hovel didn’t do it.
Sitting at a desk instead of pouring coffee for assholes didn’t do it.
Quitting smoking, getting more sleep, spending more time with my family, didn’t do it.
I am broken. I admit it. But I have come to the conclusion that the cure–this endless, bland, tasteless sobriety–is worse than the disease.
Who cares if I endanger myself, if the alternative is feeling like I am already dead?
I do not exaggerate. I feel nothing. And I know–I know–that all I need to be my most vibrant, alive self, is to go back to the edge.
I can’t explain it. It just is what it is. I am who I am. I need it to wake me up.
I am dying for a lover to bring me to life.