The first choice I have every day is whether I should open my eyes and live another day or not.
I guess I’ll give it another try though my bed is comfortable. I sit up. As usual, I didn’t get enough sleep, I felt sleepy at 6:47 AM, and it’s only 9: 15 AM.
No one will bother me if I decide to sleep a little more, but if I do that, I’m in for one of the lazy days I hate. Proscrinating for me isn’t leisure; it’s a scary moment where all my dark thoughts swell up and overflow.
Being occupied is the only solution I’ve found, and waking up taking a shower is a duty that helps me fight. Seems stupid, right?
But guess what? For people like me, simple gestures are life keepers.
Back in the days, I would have woken up with a pounding headache and half a memory of the events. Mona would call me for a recap and remind me of the tale to tell my parents. Besides being useless, I’m also a lousy liar.
The roles were well distributed; Mona carried the brains for both of us. So I profited from her piggyback.
Just thinking about it makes me sick. How can one attain such a low level of existence?
Anyway, after the phone briefing, I would go downstairs at the time I desired and my parents, if there, asked me if I studied by at Mona’s. That’s how easy it was.
It’s one of the explanations my brain has come up with to explain how I ended up a junkie.
It was simple; now you see we’re all addicts. We’re all hooked on something. The only things people will tell you are some addictions are better than others.
It’s wrong to affirm such things. Anything excessively taken is terrible for you.
Fizzy drinks, chocolate, cakes, TV series, video games, alcohol, drugs, aspirin, sex, yes even sex anything done or taken beyond the limits of reason is dangerous.
If it doesn’t kill you straight away, it kills you softly.
Sweet, absorbing all the suffering, addictions convince us they are beneficial in a certain way.
So I knew all this when I started my descent, and I had no reason to start drinking or testing these drugs.
I mean, if I were miserable, people would have said, poor child, she’s fleeing her shitty life. When you have money, it’s different; it’s like, oh, she wants to be interesting, rich kids, and their fake issues.
And I indeed had no issues. As I said, it was simple to obtain and fun. Brad and I would end up wasted without reason, at least that’s what we thought, but all the therapy sessions I’ve had since proved the contrary:
And a little lack of empathy sprinkled here and there; I’ve never put myself in other people’s shoes because I’m still trying to fit mine.
In plain language, it makes me a self-centered freak.
These things sum up my personality; according to therapists, I was asking for help.
Eh, seriously, like taking drugs was my cry for help, okay whatever.
To be honest, I think even doctors comfort themselves by saying that addicts need help, but they don’t know how to ask.
No one wants to hear that I was a stupid teen who just wanted to have fun because it’s nasty, and it would mean that I’m anything except human.
And this terrifies them.
The thing is I’m a horrifying being; I don’t realize I’m doing wrong till it’s too late, and I needed to kill three people to understand that what I was doing was fucked up.
Sometimes I think what tortures me the most is being seen as a victim; even after what I did, people pitied me, and that hurts. It’s a weird paradox, where I’m aware of my wrongs and awaiting divine punishment.
It hurts so bad I stopped eating, but people pitied me more than before.
Anorexia for me represented a form of punishment as I deprived myself of food, especially meat; the smell of any cooked flesh disgusts me.
Then it became a control issue. If I could control my hunger, I could regain control of my life.
Everyone jumped in with: “Jane, you must eat.”
So I ate and ate, only to be more disgusted, for I lost control and indulged myself. The moments where I enjoyed food would have me vomiting with guilt.
Yeah, addictions suck whatever they are.
What’s worse is that twisted people like me are active in innovating on the torture method. I found another addiction to numb the pain, scratching.
I scratch myself, it doesn’t sound like something terrible, but I rasp myself to the bone where no one can see. Skin and blood fill my nails, clogging them like dirt.
When naked, you’d think I fought a tiger.
When I do that, I’m satisfied with the pain, but also, the sight of blood reassures me. To stop, I cut my nails, but I claw my skin till it burns by irritation.
Get up, Jane; I sigh and get out of bed. Yes, taking a shower can save your life. Doing that and all the steps that follow help me.
Washing my hair, brushing my teeth, getting dressed occupies me, but also, each step pushes me to go to the following. And just by doing these things one after the other without rushing, I can finish a day and start the next.
That’s how I’ve lived for the last five years; following everyday gestures keep me alive.
I’m ready, and I go downstairs.
My dad is wailing my name for I don’t know why we have a visitor, which is rare now. It seems my parents have stopped inviting the neighbors to vent their success; I guess they too have got bored with the cheap thrills.
Boasting is also a dumb addiction; I’m glad they appear to have made it through, but my father seems to have still the late-night outs going for him.