I no longer know what the goal of the site is, I write horror fiction, and love letters to myself.
This site is a tool to facilitate the act of seeing clearly, written by hands that used to hurt myself.
Explanation: I am Damien, I speak to my split personality Amanda. I am two people in love with each other, and I am okay with that now.
I have paranoid schizophrenia, narcissistic personality disorder, bipolar II-manic/depressive- rapid cycling, depression, anxiety, hydrocepholus, narcissistic personality disorder suffering from alcoholism, drug addiction, alcoholic. with OCD and PTSD- was addicted to heroin, meth, crack, alcohol, cocaine, prescription pills.
I am drug addict/alcoholic/dual diagnosis/ex-homeless person.
Through dark horror fiction I rake the muck of the lives of street addicts.
Or in plain English this is an epic poem/novel about addiction told about low bottom addicts in horror style.
Tag: making progress
I am sitting here and feeling empty, lonely and alone. It is mostly due to time of day, and the fact that I moved locations to a place far from anyone I knew, and very specifically the only you I ever write to, over and over and over and over.
In the desert there exist dead trees, that stand next to each other, and I think of us sometimes, how we sucked the life out of each other.
I wonder sometimes, are the trees dead in this image because they were too close to each other, and in that codependency suffocated each other?
Or starved each other for space?
Or deprived access to oxygen and nutrients, due to being too close?
Daily writing prompt
What’s one small improvement you can make in your life?
This is not a small improvement, I don’t do small improvements, I do procrastination for 20 years, and then large improvements. I spent all of my life devoted to hard drugs and alcohol, and now I am so done, and tired of stroking my own fractured ego. I need a freaking life. I don’t hate myself anymore, so I am trying to make whatever changes I need to, and making amends with my family. My mother is a really good person, and is helping me a lot. I wrote her as Diane, because I resented the idea of being helped at all, but I am seeing clearly now that she is trying to help me because she loves me. I know now that needing help, and accepting it is a strength not a weakness.
I think the small improvement I can make is try being less of an ***hole.
That sounds like a large improvement, I don’t know. Maybe one day I will get my **** together. I hope so, I am very ****ing lonely.
I am the painting of a perfect day, that is not perfect now, but the ideal, that exists, and is the possibility of beginning to feel
I am the idea that one day I will be, because I can see, so I can come out.
I am the feeling of not having to feel perpetually without.
I feel hope, I feel peace, even if I scream and cry, I can feel the possibility of something if I keep going and continue to be honest with myself,
I will discover what else is out there, I am not always stuck here.
I am the ability to see forward motion, if anything that is what is different, I am may at sometimes, be chaotic, pacing itself, runing or chasing, but I see forward motion, a direction, a towards, not a forlorn staring, always and forever into nothing. I am at least focused on somewhere not nowhere.
I used to be nowhere, desiring nothing, wanting only more nowhere, because nowhere had things not found in somewhere, but only in the perpetual pause of nowhere, justified,
By distilled misery, put on ice or intensified, and injected into situations to be experienced rapidly, thinking that it would feel better slowly or quickly eating my own death, than experiencing life on life’s terms.
If nothing else I see this now, I see clearly now, and I may cry, or scream, or fight the universe, I may have a hissy fit the whole time, but I am no longer diluting my reality so I can consume it shot by shot.
I used to hate you, standing over here, seeing you as potential cash.
I am the ever bounced check on my own soul.
No longer bouncing, just burned and tossed in the trash.
I am in debt to you, for having fed someone with hand-outs.
I look at you, and you seem so peaceful, glittering with love for one another, in a way I have never had love for anyone or anything.
Your laughs and voices telling stories of times shared, not taken.
Glances shared paint your lives with love and joy, which I don’t understand, not yet, being a glance stealer, not a glance giver.
I am not good at seeing anything, but at looking and casting doubt and disdain, and living in pain, an excuse for cowardly escape.
I am seeing you now, and realizing you always have been stronger than I ever was, because you need eachother, which means you can depend on eachother.
You look to eachother for strength instead of finding strength in sticks and stones.
Getting my own place, and moving on with everything I mean. I am realizing how much worse this whole thing has made me, and thinking that having a place where I can be alone would be good. I think the paranoia will get a lot better, if I am alone. Which is funny because I think that this something the universe was trying to tell me and I wasn’t listening. I think that this is why I have gotten as bad as I have, because I am pretty insane right now, or I think I am… in comparison to how I used to be.
I just talked to my family about getting an attorney to handle a disability claim I have going on, because I am very good at losing jobs, over and over and over. I have had a lot of them, but I lose every single one for one reason or another. Usually because some paranoid delusion justifies me not showing up or being drunk or high when I show up because I am afraid and use or drink because I am afraid.
It really helped me to talk to my family about all of this, I feel less like a pacing lunatic now, at least I know the whole world is not out to get me now.
The sound of automation is mesmerizing, the clicking, the shuffling, the beeping the whirring, shoving and blended talking of all those on the train, who do not know me, and don’t know anything about my past. They have no judgement of me, preconceived or otherwise, busy with their own business. I fade into the background, and watch a world I left behind for a dance with a siren who wanted to rip my soul from my eyes.
My eyes are free now, and look around, not dominated by watching her, they are free to be their own, not called to the service of a master, they watch as the passengers go about their quiet business, and I am inspired by their composure, ability to be so normal, the train is a zen garden of little people, not screaming in overinflated hot blow up doll chaos, they keep to themselves, and I keep to mine, in my mind. I am thinking about leaving this place, misery, and doing something else, thinking and sure that this time, I mean it, because she should not own my words anymore.
I am going to board a new train of thought, and then hopefully get myself together enough to go on a train and do something else.
My dog left me, she stayed with my ex, not my last ex, but the one before. She had a sister, and they never had been separated, so I let my ex not the last one, but the other one. The one before.
I tell myself she left me, forgetting the drive to drop her off at my ex’s house, and how dogs can’t drive, but neither can I. I did not choose that and neither did she. She was too wild and free for where I stay currently, and it is metaphoric in a way my choice to stay away, chained as I was to addiction, locking myself in a metaphoric hotel that represented the real hell of once being in a real hotel with the devil who is really my ex-boyfriend who wanted me to be everything I was not so much so, I realized everything I was not.
The dog who sits next to me now, knows all this, somehow or I feel she does. I came here, and was initially… I am ashamed to say bothered by her.. a tragic reminder of what I lost, as if it was something I owned.
I own no dog, but no one ever does, and the souls of the dogs of this world are very much the same in all their subtle differences, radiating love, unable to be felt by human beings because of their innate trust that only goes away if you are bad to them.
Reflecting on this makes me realize I did the right thing for you, my dear Fiona, and I love my mother’s dog the same way now that I still love you.
I went to the doctor and got the rest of my shots, hep a and b and am still taking my meds for staph infection, I am going to make a psych doctor appointment and get the rest of my health things in order, I have to see a nuerologist, because I have not done that since California. I am feeling so much better since I started living in reality, and not projecting my life into some strange fantasy where I feel so guilty about being a drug addict that I equate it to actually being the one responsible for hurting anyone. I did not realize till recently, how sad and messed up that is, and how it has ruined so many things for me, by my own self sabotage. I think I felt like being some violent social deviant was some how better than saying I was who I was because it made me feel like I had control over my life.
I have control over my life now without having to pretend I was hurting anyone. I was only hurting myself by putting all of that, the weight of all of that on my own shoulders, and making myself out to be some social deviant when I was just a sad addict who couldn’t handle admitting mistakes made because I felt that saying I messed up made me weak. Hurting people would not have made me strong. I am stronger admitting weakness, than living in some sick twisted Misery world where I hurt unsuspecting people who had nothing to do with my inability to accept myself.
I love all you guys who helped me see this. I am so sorry for anything I said out of lack of knowledge about what was really going on with me. I am trying to be better.
It was this guy ranting about how prison doesn’t sound that bad
Free place to live
I thought it was hilarious, but then was immediately grasped at the neck by anxiety and asked her why she was showing it to me.
I hate being schizophrenic, I have done nothing that would cause me to worry about this, but that is my instant reaction. I hate being insane. I didn’t snap at her. Small steps.
I am doing things now other than this blog, that is not some snotty, I have too much time for the *&^! thing, I am not trying to sound like a jerk, even though somehow I always seem to think I do. Thanks universe, or me, because I am the one deciding to say things myself, and have no one to blame, but me.
Oh, word vomit. I hate you.
Seriously though, I found a way to pay for a place to live at least a little bit, or bit save up for a place to live, and I won’t have to live under a bridge committing senseless atrocities. I am helping my friend, who is not me list things online and she is paying me and Amanda is helping me. It is a person from Amanda’s universe, but we both have the same hands, and the internet works in mysterious ways, and extension of disbelief… bear with me poetic metaphor blah blah blah. I have no idea what I am talking about either because a couple weeks ago I was insane. I am still insane, but I am working on it. I am trying not to be such a &*^&.
I am just glad I have a little reason not to hate myself.. or a step in the right direction? It also shows we are beginning to be positive forces in each other’s life.