The concept of a work in progress is very scary to me, which is why I am writing this. I have some things inside me that aren't coming out in other ways; I must try a new forum. You see, I am trying to detox from it all now, and I am afraid of the monster that remains inside me. As the fellowship puts it, "My addict is doing push-ups and I try not to listen to the rap." But this "rap" has been increasing in volume for quite a long time.
I hadn't noticed how the tendrils
of the opium poppy look soft and peaceful but remain deadly for this addict
until my body finally gives up, wears out.
I let the words run off to the edges of the screen because I thought I might have more to say. Today, I can tell you honestly that I have nothing to say. Doesn't that make you want to keep reading?Today the terrorists hit American soil and tore a hole into our soul--for a few minutes. Then the world seemed to come together to fight the terrorists....
I have survivors guilt--all those people who had lives and were not afraid to live them; had children; had parents who loved them; and I am a useless waste of space. Been slamming dope for a couple of weeks now. What better life to waste than mine?
I can't keep secrets from my husband; I think he wished I would have kept this from him as long as possible. He told me to leave. I will leave. We talk later.
Told you this would be a work in progress; tomorrow none of this may appear here. I am just trying an experiment in honesty. What a concept.
September 11. I knew if I ever wanted to numb out completely, today is the day. Instead, I am done with it. Only hit twice; twice too many. Now I know what it feels like.
Hmmm. How long with that last? I am writing this on September 23. Clean. Thank Tao. Now it is time to grieve for every lost soul, every fatherless child, every motherless baby... and the frief finally comes to a head for me. I grieve my life. I cry for days.