DXM and Guitar

I think I'm going to get fucked up this weekend.  I want to do DXM so that I can feel.  Uh oh.  That's no good.

But being high is the time I feel safest to feel.  I don't have to stand guard at the gate, ushering in or blocking out my thoughts.  I can just let go.  And I'm happy.  I'm happy to die.  Life is good, I'm good, all is good when I'm high on DXM.  Maybe I can write a song.

I think I've also decided to write a short story about abuse.  Not sure what.  Childhood maybe?  Now?  I don't have enough of a fucking clue of what's going on with me now to write about it intelligently.  Or maybe I do.

I just finished reading Dr. Jack's book- the first part, the story part.  It triggered the urge to write.  His story begins with a woman in the car on the way to a  hospital.   I'm thinking I might start in the same place- a woman (me, but not me) driving herself to inpatient, as I did.  A nice fat five hour drive.  It was like liberation and fear at the same moment- driving myself to what?  The lady or the tiger??  It sure as fuck feels like the tiger a lot of the time.  And I'm not sure I want the lady even if she showed up. 

So yeah, a rumination on my/her ride down here.  But through it, there'll be remembrances of how she got to that point.  Not serious trauma, because hell, I don't have that.  I just hate myself.  But somehow let the fear, the excitement, the hope, the crushing depression and self hatred come through.  But show 'em, don't tell 'em, as old Samuel Clemens was wont to say.  What the fuck is with all my cute folksie-isms.  I'm about ready to make myself puke.

OK, goodnight.

In loving memory

The roomie that relapsed died.  Probably 3 or so hours after I wrote my previous post.  She stopped breathing and died in the bed next to me as I was sleeping.  I heard her breathing/snoring at about 5 AM, but she was dead when I woke up at 8:45 AM.

I don't know what more to say about it right now.  There is so much to say that I am overwhelmed and can't begin to communicate.  Because beginning and not saying enough or not saying the right thing would be worse than just staying mute.

I guess I could say I feel badly.  And I am sad.  I went to her funeral yesterday.  She was loved.  It is a horrible thing, her death.  She did not deserve it.  Yes, it was a horrible, horrible waste.  Terrible.

Enough.