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I used to live my life like it was one great story.

I did everything I did just to be able to say that I did it. I’ve done more, seen more, than anyone my age should ever do or see. Which, honestly, in the long run it still doesn’t help because I’m still naïve as all fuck in some areas; some of them important areas. I still have this picture of the world in my head; all drawn out and colored in with multicolored crayons with a fucking smiley face in the sun. And this world isn’t real; it isn’t something anyone sees but me.

I thought I was on top of that fuckin’ world, honestly. For a long ass time. Look at me; all giddy and happy in the sun, looking down at all of you.

I was sexually free and partying, having fun, but keeping time to do all my geeky little things that I did. I had friends, I had lovers, I had a woman who was more to me than just a lover… but whatever. That’s past. Point? Nothing could bring me down. I was fuckin’ untouchable.

… Until I got bitch slapped in the face by reality.

The sad part? I’d go back there in a heartbeat; even knowing what I know now. Even knowing how it all turns out, how it all goes to shit, how I got taken over by a drug I thought had no control over me because my best friend managed for so much longer.

She might just be stronger than I am though.

I’m sorry, but I was happy. I was more in control of my life than I am right now. Right now I’m the equivalent of nothing, and that’s not a dig at myself. That’s the cold hard truth. I was more in control of my life even when I was strung out living in the Budget Suites and the highlight of my week was my Tuesday ritual of getting high out of my fucking mind and watching Leverage. Not that I wasn’t getting high any other day… or night, or morning. But it was special; Tuesday. Leverage night. High and screaming at my TV about how Nate’s being a jackass and how Parker should have more screen time.

It’s sad, but I watch that video of me… the one where I’m watching the season one finale. Cussing at Nate and what have you. I watch it and all I can remember is how everytime I commercial was on I was scraping the bowl for any kind of release. I was practically out that day. I remember it. But god, can you get a lot from a pipe you haven’t cleaned in a week.

I miss the taste of it. I miss the smell. I miss the feeling. I miss getting high because you know what? My addiction made me go to work so I could afford to get more. It was a shitty incentive, yes, but it was still a fucking incentive.

Almost a year clean. I’ve been in Atlanta now for almost a year. You know what I have to show for it?

Nothing besides a whole lot of fanfic. And fanfic gets me a big fat nowhere in life; in the long run. I used to live my life like a story… now I tell it through other characters because I have nothing left.

I can’t handle my own life. This is supposed to be it, yeah? The big fucking finish. I’m clean and the world has opened up to me; so many fucking possibilities. Well you know what? Go to hell.

Most days I want to slit my wrists then go for my throat. Fucking finger paint in my own blood.

I’m cracking worse than I was when I was strung out. At least then I had a reason to be fucked up. Now? I have no excuse; no reason. Scratch the dope covered surface and what do you find? A shell. Nothing. Nobody. I wasn’t a fuck up because of the drugs; I’m a fuck up as it is. Hell, the drugs helped me be less of a fuck up.

Storyteller. Storytelling.

I can’t make this stop. I was lying in bed and I thought to myself, “I can’t wait until this is all over. Until I can tell stories about it. How I was fucked up for three years only to get clean and realize I was nothing without the drugs.” And you know what? Like the idiot that I am I still have the fantasy that some brave white knight is gonna ride in and save me from myself. We can all make note that this said knight is a woman, no matter what my wavering sexuality has been indicating these last couple months. I think I’m just out of things to do, so why not try men? That’s… new. Ha.

I don’t leave my house. Hell, I barely leave my couch. I wake up and sit on my computer and I stay there until I fall asleep.

I keep telling myself day after day that I’m going to go to work tomorrow… or no wait, maybe the next day… until I’m out of money and crying to the only people who will listen and bail my ass out again. It makes me feel worthless; horrible. I feel like I’m just this waste of space and air that people cling to in the small hope that I’m worth something more than that. I love how everyone can see the other side but me.

I should be looking forward to the Leverage convention, but I’m terrified of it. I’m a mess, you all know it. Rather not have you all actually see it.

I’ve thought of going back to Massachusetts, getting all that nice free health insurance and then checking myself into a mental hospital for the long haul. At least I won’t have to try to act sane then. I can claw at myself until I bleed, scream until they restrain me, finally succumb to all the madness in my head.

Fuck. I just want to be free.

I need an escape, any fucking escape. Just point me to the door, honey. I need to breathe, I need to run, I need to scream, I need to do some violence and then fuckin’ vomit. I don’t care anymore. I just feel so trapped. And the fucked up thing is that I’m trapping myself.

I’m not an idiot, I can see it. I can feel it. But it doesn’t make it better. My head likes to torture me every single fucking day.

This is why I tell stories. I’m no longer a part of one, so why not relive them. Pain, agony, heartbreak, remorse, slavery. Look at my stories. Each and every one. Somewhere in each of them is a part of me. Its so funny how my beta actually picks them out, and it’s even funnier that most of the time I don’t even realize I’m doing it when it’s something little.

Big stuff though... yeah, I know. Parker. Faith. Their pasts? Hi, welcome to little bits and pieces of my life. I’m just lucky that both of the characters are so screwed up that it’s believable to be theirs too.

My head hurts. My stomach hurts. It’s almost 10am and I should be sleeping because I need to work tonight. I NEED TO. Will I get there? Probably not. Same shit, different fucking week.

You know what hell is? Hell is when you relive the same day over and over. When you do the same shit over and over and expect different results.

Fuck hell. Fuck this. Fuck everything.

Labels: drugs, fucking life, leverage

I used to live my life like it was one great story.

I did everything I did just to be able to say that I did it. I’ve done more, seen more, than anyone my age should ever do or see. Which, honestly, in the long run it still doesn’t help because I’m still naïve as all fuck in some areas; some of them important areas. I still have this picture of the world in my head; all drawn out and colored in with multicolored crayons with a fucking smiley face in the sun. And this world isn’t real; it isn’t something anyone sees but me.

I thought I was on top of that fuckin’ world, honestly. For a long ass time. Look at me; all giddy and happy in the sun, looking down at all of you.

I was sexually free and partying, having fun, but keeping time to do all my geeky little things that I did. I had friends, I had lovers, I had a woman who was more to me than just a lover… but whatever. That’s past. Point? Nothing could bring me down. I was fuckin’ untouchable.

… Until I got bitch slapped in the face by reality.

The sad part? I’d go back there in a heartbeat; even knowing what I know now. Even knowing how it all turns out, how it all goes to shit, how I got taken over by a drug I thought had no control over me because my best friend managed for so much longer.

She might just be stronger than I am though.

I’m sorry, but I was happy. I was more in control of my life than I am right now. Right now I’m the equivalent of nothing, and that’s not a dig at myself. That’s the cold hard truth. I was more in control of my life even when I was strung out living in the Budget Suites and the highlight of my week was my Tuesday ritual of getting high out of my fucking mind and watching Leverage. Not that I wasn’t getting high any other day… or night, or morning. But it was special; Tuesday. Leverage night. High and screaming at my TV about how Nate’s being a jackass and how Parker should have more screen time.

It’s sad, but I watch that video of me… the one where I’m watching the season one finale. Cussing at Nate and what have you. I watch it and all I can remember is how everytime I commercial was on I was scraping the bowl for any kind of release. I was practically out that day. I remember it. But god, can you get a lot from a pipe you haven’t cleaned in a week.

I miss the taste of it. I miss the smell. I miss the feeling. I miss getting high because you know what? My addiction made me go to work so I could afford to get more. It was a shitty incentive, yes, but it was still a fucking incentive.

Almost a year clean. I’ve been in Atlanta now for almost a year. You know what I have to show for it?

Nothing besides a whole lot of fanfic. And fanfic gets me a big fat nowhere in life; in the long run. I used to live my life like a story… now I tell it through other characters because I have nothing left.

I can’t handle my own life. This is supposed to be it, yeah? The big fucking finish. I’m clean and the world has opened up to me; so many fucking possibilities. Well you know what? Go to hell.

Most days I want to slit my wrists then go for my throat. Fucking finger paint in my own blood.

I’m cracking worse than I was when I was strung out. At least then I had a reason to be fucked up. Now? I have no excuse; no reason. Scratch the dope covered surface and what do you find? A shell. Nothing. Nobody. I wasn’t a fuck up because of the drugs; I’m a fuck up as it is. Hell, the drugs helped me be less of a fuck up.

Storyteller. Storytelling.

I can’t make this stop. I was lying in bed and I thought to myself, “I can’t wait until this is all over. Until I can tell stories about it. How I was fucked up for three years only to get clean and realize I was nothing without the drugs.” And you know what? Like the idiot that I am I still have the fantasy that some brave white knight is gonna ride in and save me from myself. We can all make note that this said knight is a woman, no matter what my wavering sexuality has been indicating these last couple months. I think I’m just out of things to do, so why not try men? That’s… new. Ha.

I don’t leave my house. Hell, I barely leave my couch. I wake up and sit on my computer and I stay there until I fall asleep.

I keep telling myself day after day that I’m going to go to work tomorrow… or no wait, maybe the next day… until I’m out of money and crying to the only people who will listen and bail my ass out again. It makes me feel worthless; horrible. I feel like I’m just this waste of space and air that people cling to in the small hope that I’m worth something more than that. I love how everyone can see the other side but me.

I should be looking forward to the Leverage convention, but I’m terrified of it. I’m a mess, you all know it. Rather not have you all actually see it.

I’ve thought of going back to Massachusetts, getting all that nice free health insurance and then checking myself into a mental hospital for the long haul. At least I won’t have to try to act sane then. I can claw at myself until I bleed, scream until they restrain me, finally succumb to all the madness in my head.

Fuck. I just want to be free.

I need an escape, any fucking escape. Just point me to the door, honey. I need to breathe, I need to run, I need to scream, I need to do some violence and then fuckin’ vomit. I don’t care anymore. I just feel so trapped. And the fucked up thing is that I’m trapping myself.

I’m not an idiot, I can see it. I can feel it. But it doesn’t make it better. My head likes to torture me every single fucking day.

This is why I tell stories. I’m no longer a part of one, so why not relive them. Pain, agony, heartbreak, remorse, slavery. Look at my stories. Each and every one. Somewhere in each of them is a part of me. Its so funny how my beta actually picks them out, and it’s even funnier that most of the time I don’t even realize I’m doing it when it’s something little.

Big stuff though... yeah, I know. Parker. Faith. Their pasts? Hi, welcome to little bits and pieces of my life. I’m just lucky that both of the characters are so screwed up that it’s believable to be theirs too.

My head hurts. My stomach hurts. It’s almost 10am and I should be sleeping because I need to work tonight. I NEED TO. Will I get there? Probably not. Same shit, different fucking week.

You know what hell is? Hell is when you relive the same day over and over. When you do the same shit over and over and expect different results.

Fuck hell. Fuck this. Fuck everything.

Labels: drugs, fucking life, leverage

My name is Mary. I'm a 24 year old creative mess. I like to tell stories in anyway that I can, though mostly through visual artwork. I enjoy film editing, writing, modeling, photography, dancing, and website design. I'm a lesbian. I'm bipolar. I'm stronger than I usually give myself credit for. I'm a recovering drug addict. I'm passionate as all hell. I'm a beautiful disaster. I want to be free. I want to fly.

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