I’m so sorry. To you, to myself, to my friends, to my family. I crumbled. I caved. I’m writing this and I’m under the influence of alcohol. Not a lot, but enough. Enough to make me hate myself again.
Every day that I am alive, I am scared. I am terrified of being alive. I thought a few social drinks would ease my anxiety but it only exacerbates my paranoia.
I don’t know how my limbs still move, how my mouth still speaks; some heavenly spirit keeps me surviving, some god is my puppeteer, some force pumps my blood and inflates my lungs everytime I try to die.
If God is a DJ he’s playing every song that I despise, on repeat, ignoring my pleading requests for my favourite songs.
If life is a dance floor, mine is covered in sticky beer, cigarette butts, empty wraps, vomit, the sweat and saliva of every body that stands in my way; the bodily fluids of the constant clubbers who prevent me from moving forwards, from reaching God, the DJ, from asking, begging for a different song, a better song, a song that I can tolerate, a song that I enjoy, hell, maybe even a song that I love.
How long should you fight, when you know that you are fighting a losing battle? The war against my mind is long and violent, and it’s tiring. I feel like I have to destroy what destroyed me: myself.