on the eve of destruction…

I feel this soul crushing sadness.  I don’t know why.  Yeah, I’m fighting with my wife, but the emotional temperature has cooled since the original days.  It’s not that.

It’s so heavy I can’t lift my head.


I’ve always been the type to attack a problem and hammer everything out, nice and neat.  You don’t want to talk?  Too bad.  it needs to be talked about.  Yet, I’ve been sitting in this chair for days trying to figure out what is going on in my head with no success.  My head hurts.  My back hurts.  My ass hurts.  I cannot figure out this feeling.  Was I triggered?  No idea.  I’ve gone over and over what I can remember.  Nothing stands out to me that falls within my taboo categories.  I’m crying and I don’t know why.  I feel rage, and I don’t know where it’s coming from.  I scream ” LEAVE ME ALONE”, but I don’t want to be left alone.  I want someone to take this from me.  I want comfort.  I have to find a way to comfort myself.  Do I still have thoughts of leaving this place?  Yes, absolutely.  It’s the thing I think after the comma in every declaration I make whether that be here, or in my head.  I hate feeling this way.  I hate not being able to get my feet under me.

I tried to eat last night, because I can’t stand the disapproving and disappointed looks I get, but I could only get down a bit of soup.  It made me so sick.  I felt like I had a chunk of something stuck in my throat for hours afterward.  I’ve done this before, this no eating thing, but I’ve never felt this way trying to climb out of the hole.   I’m confused about that, and a bit scared.  I understand I have to eat to live, but what happens when the lack of want to live outweighs the realization that ” you have people who depend on you”?

That bugs me.  It really, really bothers me.   I can’t see past the nose on my face right now, but I’m expected to put everyone else’s wants and needs before my own.  Yeah, suicide is selfish.  Of course it is.  It’s so much more selfish than the people around you telling you to suck it up and get your fucking big girl panties on and take one for the team – fuck how you feel, amirite?

It’s like I was only born into this world to be of service to others.  I’m like an automaton, and I’m not supposed to have these feelings.  If I do, I am not fulfilling my primary function for servitude.

” your daughter needs you” – yeah, she’d be better off without me.  How much damage do I do to her psyche when she sees me like this?

” you wife needs you” – no, she really doesn’t she got on without me before i came along, and my own baggage has complicated her life to the boiling point.

” you parents need you” – really?  I gave them what they wanted – grandchildren, so I guess the old adage of  “nothing more than an incubator” fits here.

” your friends need you” – um…what friends would those be?  I have no friends.  Not a pity ploy.  I really have no friends.

I think my cat would be upset, but she’ll get over it.

Hungry like the wolf

I just realize the last thing I ate was Thursday.  I had a couple of sandwiches.  Today is Sunday.  Between nausea and just not giving a fuck, let’s see how long I can go before I’m forced to eat.

No one is watching, as the wife and I are currently on opposite sides of the house trying very hard to pretend we don’t see each other, so let’s see if I can put myself in the hospital.  Last time I went nine days.  Wanna go for a record breaker?  Yeah.  Let’s do that.

Nothing else matters…

I’m trying really hard to find a reason to keep breathing today.  I can’t I find a valid argument for every one I think of.  The thought of living for another 40 or so years terrifies me because I’m not seeing any fireflies in my future.

I swore, SWORE I would not use this space when I was having a bad day.  I swore to myself that this would be a space where I could vomit up the emotional sick and get it out of me, but it’s not working.  I’ve been wanting to write for weeks, but have never had the time or ability, for various reasons.

Mental illness is the thing that people make fun of.  It’s the insult people use when they disagree with another’s opinion.  It’s the cartoon character.
No, it’s not.  It’s me.

I doubt I was born this way.  No one is born with  the thoughts I have in my head.  I was clean and unbroken when I was born.  Life did this to me.  The people in my life broke me and made me the dull, dirty, hate-filled thing I am today.. Bravo.

I’ve had an abscessed tooth for the last month (?) – not sure, didn’t mark it on the calendar.  It was infected.  It hurt.  It hurt a whole fucking lot.  I removed it today, and this vile liquid filled my mouth and made me gag.  I never noticed how infection and semen are so similar in taste.

So now I feel like a mule kicked me in the face, and I’ve read so many horror stories about stupid infections killing people, I’m fucking terrified that I’m going to die in my fucking sleep.  How ridiculous is that?


Top it off, I’m fighting with my wife – not going there – so I have like, NO one to talk to to tell me to pull my panties out of my ass and calm the fuck down.  I look to you, brave anonymous internet hive mind, to tell me I’m being a ninny.  Have at ‘er.

I live in a 17 story building.  You can see for miles and miles.  Maybe I’ll post a pic one day.

I’ve been thinking about the top floor more and more lately.  I get shaky just standing by the door looking out.  I wonder  what it would feel like to fly?

I reminisce …..I had a friend who was my sobriety partner.  She was awesome.  If I was in a jam, she was always there for me.If I was sad, she’d make me feel better.  I miss her so much.  She killed herself.  She jumped from her balcony.  I miss her.  Did I say that?  Her spirit was so strong on this earth.  I try to match her, but I fall short every time.  I look at my family and know they would be better off without me here to complicate things.

On the other hand, all I want is for someone to take over so I don’t have to think anymore.  I need someone strong in my life to tell me to put my shoulder to the grind stone and just do what I need to do.  I don’t matter here.  No one notices me.  No one sees me unless I can do something for them.  It’s like my only value here is what I can do for others.  How can I do for others when I have nothing to give?

I’m lost.  Religion didn’t help; being “spiritual” didn’t help; being charitable didn’t help.  I’m out of ideas.  There is nothing keeping me here except my own cowardice.

I still wonder what it would feel like to fly.  Would the wind rip the breath from my lungs on the way down, or would I feel exhilaration.  I’d ask, but the only person I know who tried is dead.  I think about it more than I should.  That’s all I’ve been thinking about lately.

I’ve been reading other blogs from people like me, and one person used the term “suicidality”.  I’m not sure that’s a real word, but it fits.  It’s a constant state of mind.  It never leaves, even when I’m having a good day.  It’s always there, like cancer.

I’m sitting here, booze free, drug free, face aching and back hunched over in pain.  I screamed so loud at my wife that I think I pulled something back there.  I hate who I am, and I can’t seem to change anything to make it better.  Trust me, I’ve tried. Everything I look at, I wonder how I can use it to hurt myself.   Writing is only bring my a sense of focus on what seems like my only option.

I hate this thing that I’ve become.  I feel like I’m walking around in ill fitting clothes.  God I want a drink.  If for no other reason than to just stop thinking for a little while.

I just want to be left alone.  I don’t even want to be around my daughter.  I know that she will try and make me feel better, and I don’t want to lie to her.  I told her earlier that she had to go in the other room because I’m not safe right now.

I have so much in my head, and not nearly enough words to be coherent.  I’m lost.

She won’t last another day…

She falls asleep


She falls asleep and all she thinks about is you
She falls asleep and all she dreams about is you
When she’s asleep the air she’s breathing is for you
Are why she wants to live
She’s not got that much more to give

She sits alone, on her phone
She’s calling about her broken home
And I don’t know what I should say cause she’s crying
And feels as though she’s thrown it all away
She won’t last another day

You’re climbing the stairs, unaware that she’s hurting
Bad and lying very still on the floor by the door
But it’s locked ’cause she was hoping
You would come back for more
But it’s too late to realize you’ve made mistakes

She falls asleep and all she thinks about is you
She falls asleep and all she dreams about is you
When she’s asleep the air she’s breathing is for you
Are why she wants to live
She’s not got that much more to give

Please save me
I’ve been waiting,
Been aching for too long

She falls asleep and all she thinks about is you
She falls asleep and all she dreams about is you
When she’s asleep the air she’s breathing is for you
Are why she wants to live
She’s not got that much more to give

Please save me
I’ve been waiting

They’re crawling like a cockroach leaving babies in my bed

Possible TW


Rape is.

It is the complete domination of one soul, spirit and body.  It reaches inside of your mind and body, tearing through any defenses you may have.  It takes up residence in you like a festering tumor, and then send tendrils of despair into every atom of your being.

It makes you hate everyone and everything, including yourself.  You believe you created the situation in which the rape took place.  You believe that you were the reason, the cause, and ultimately, the invoker of it’s poison.

Rape is the reason you can’t get out of bed in the morning, preferring to cup your vagina in protection under the blankets.  It’s the reason you look at every person in your life afterward as a potential predator.  It’s the reason you want to shatter the reflection of dirty, dirty girl in the mirror.

Rape is the brillo pad you use 30 years later in the shower to scrub away the ghost fingers that you can still feel on your skin.  It’s the scars on your arms when it gets so big in your head, you do anything to try and feel something other than dirty and used up, like a condom in the bushes.  It’s the drugs you take to sleep, even for a little while with no dreams.  It’s the next drink, and the one after that, and the one after that.  It’s the night terrors, and the sounds and voices no one else ever hears, and the doubled locked doors, and the checking on your baby, and the quiet tears that you cry when your spouse is asleep so you don’t wake them up and cause a scene.

Rape is hearing your father slip into your room.  It’s the feeling of his fingers inside you and pushing your legs apart, even though your legs are so little and the joints don’t move that far apart.  It’s the bedwetting you purposely do so he is disgusted and leaves you alone.

Rape is seeing your own child and thinking, ” She’s too pretty, too tempting for them.” and being afraid for her, even though nothing has happened yet.

Rape is the little girl trapped in your head, being chased by the boogeyman all day, every day, all night, every night, and you can’t sleep or think or change how fucked up your head is, even now, when your all grown up.

Rape is me.  It is something that I am the survivor of.  It is the defining factor to who I am.  It’s is the person I have become, because nothing else I do or say is bigger than that in my life.


Don’t break the silence, don’t let me in…

Today is a hard day.  It’s 8:52am, and already I wish I had never woken up.  Granted I’ve only gotten about 45 minutes of sleep, so that may play a role in how I’m feeling, but realistically, I know it’s not a huge factor.

I have daydreams of falling.  They are so powerful, I can feel the air being pulled out of my lungs on the way down.  The mind is an incredible thing.  It can make you do and say things that can make you seem brave and fierce.  It can convey love, disdain, regret or hatred.

Did you know….

The suicide rate for Canadians, as measured by the WHO, is 15 per 100,000 people. Yet, according to numerous studies, rates are even higher among specific groups. For example, the suicide rate for Inuit peoples living in Northern Canada is between 60 and 75 per 100,000 people, significantly higher than the general population. Other populations at an increased risk of suicide include youth, the elderly, inmates in correctional facilities, people with a mental illness, and those who have previously attempted suicide. According to Statistics Canada, between 1997 and 1999, there was a 10 percent increase in suicides across Canada, from 3,681 to 4,074. In Ontario alone, suicides rose from 930 in 1997 to 1,032 in 2001.

That’s a lotta unhappy people.

The most popular way to kill yourself is via gunshot.  This poses several issues for me.  I don’t like guns.  I don’t own a gun.  No one I know has a gun, that I know of, but I doubt they would lend it to me.

Drug OD is the next most popular way to die.  That would be a lot easier, and in all likelihood, less messy and painful, though I’ve read that your body evacuates itself upon death.  That would be posthumously embarrassing.  I doubt I could “live that down”, if you’ll pardon the pun, in the afterlife.  No one would want to sit next to me.

There has to be a better place than this.

I’m supposed to be working – super busy day today.

I just can’t get my feet under me.  I can’t focus.  I feel like everything around me is playing on a movie screen, and I’m not an active participant.  I think the term is disassociate? I’m not connecting, and I don’t want to.   I would rather just curl up into a ball, crack open a bottle and get shitfaced.  This sobriety sucks ass, and is all too much work for this little engine.

I don’t understand why I’m here.  I don’t make anyone’s life better.  Quite the opposite, actually.  I “complicate”.