Standing up to myself;

The relationship I have with my mother is great. I'm sure there are people out there who could be envious at the amazingness of our bond....

... This is what it looks like.


As I think back into the dark times of my life, the best times my mother and I had were when we were drunk.
Fourteen.. fifteen years old. I remember it like it's yesterday. Standing outside in the middle of the road, ten feet away from each other at two o'clock in the morning, just yelling at each other.
She was afraid that I was going to hell because all of my friends were gay. My whole family went through this phase where they all NEEDED to know if I was gay or not. I was thirteen and apparently needed the 'if a male deer and a male deer were to mate..' speech on a regular basis.


(me at 15 between my mom's boyfriend(at the time)'s legs. We were at a big halloween house party together.)

I refused to tell them. Eventually it just ate them until they died.
Now they are more accepting of diverse lifestyle choices.

Anyways- I remember those days.

Today I'm just going to look back on it and laugh. So? Who cares if my mother and I have the best times being drunk together? (not that the one incident I mentioned is considered a 'good' time. We just look back on it and get a giggle.)
I'm sure I'm a rare instance where being drunk with my mother is fun. I should appreciate this more.
I love my mom. I'm so stupid for holding this over her head.

I remember the first time I did meth. We didn't know what we were doing. Here were these shards of crystalized addiction and we had no fucking clue what to do with them. We grabbed a butcher knife, and a straw, and went with it.

next thing I know I'm crying happy tears, hugging a tree, and running around the block-barefoot- in the middle of the street, at four a.m.

Probably one of the biggest mistakes of my life. Why was it so good?

Confessions of a teenaged meth addict

Wasted Effort: 12.28.04 // 19:15

together we share the air that fills this room. Our unfocused minds are moving quite slow, yet still too fast to grasp a specific thought. It's that time of our binge where the only thought we can truly focus on replays itself over and over and over again:
Our next fix.

That may bring surprise to your foolish closed mind, or possibly even disappointment. But I am unable to worry about the opinions you form of us simply because my degrading actions are things I am unwilling to change.

My mind continues to focus on nothing but my need to be controlled by some type of substance. There is a specific one in my mind, but any will do..

We've come to the conclusion that our life styles will most likely bring us unwanted karma for our not-so-far away future... but still, our actions remain the same. For it is too late to change. We've developed a bad habit and a growing problem, and we realize this.

But we refuse to seek help.

So as we continue living, our problem will grow more each day that passes- and our lives will continue to be controlled by various substances.

But that's okay- that's what our youthful minds, bodies and souls want..

Where as sobriety is something we try to avoid at all times...

for we are teenage junkies.

-------

I have a composition book full of things I wrote from those days. I will share from time to time. I was fifteen when I wrote this.

I remember the feeling of that razor dragging across my fragile skin. It cut like a hot knife through butter, and the pain seared. I deserved it.

I felt it in my soul, and then I felt nothing. I was numb. I saw black, and then red. I heard things that weren't said, and I felt things that weren't there.

I imagined the end, the death.

I remember the police questioning me. Chasing me down. Checking me.

I remember the ambulance ride, seeing doctor after doctor. I remember hearing kids screaming.

Why am I here? Why was I there?

There was mom.. there was dad.

I brought them together.

But where was I?

Why am I shaking?
I feel them around my neck. His hands are so rough.
Callused from the work. The hard work. The brutal work.
The work for me, he says. These hands are for me. This pain is for me.

Me; the one who doesn't appreciate. The one who doesn't deserve. The one that gets, gets it all.
I can't stand you anymore.

Do you realize that you killed me?

Do you realize that I am dead inside, and out. You killed me.
You killed me.

You fucking killed me.

I wish I could kill you back.

But you're already dead.

You are an ugly shell of an ugly man who has never been pretty.

Closure never comes.