Excerpt 17 (June 24th, 2008. A Death Star So Long Ago)

I was drunk last night. And there were images flickering in my head. It was M, and she was over me, naked and lustful. She’s growling, clawing at my chest. Our hips grind together. She continues to growl. I fucking love it. These were times when the rest of the world didn‘t matter…

The sad part of everything is that I do fully understand my dual nature. 75% of the time, I understand my feelings. I don’t want to die. I realize that not everything is about me. I understand that there is more going on. He/she didn’t hurt me because he/she directly wanted to hurt me. I get that there are layers to that. It’s the other 25% of the time when my emotions take over and I want to kill myself because she left me or she never wants to be with me or he’s hurting me again. During those times, I can’t rationalize my behavior. I’m taken over by the pure feeling of it all. They’ve hurt me, and now I want to hurt myself.

When I’m rational, I apologize. I know for a fact that S can attest to that. She’s done nothing wrong to me. Over the years, she’s been such a good friend. She’s put up with a lot of my bullshit. And I take so much personally with her. If I don’t hear from her, I agonize over it because I’m an idiot. I’ve begged at her feet. I’ve screamed at her. I’ve ignored her. I really have no idea how she puts up with someone like me. I swear, someone with a dartboard could do as good a job dealing with my crap. I’m all over the place. No wonder my relationships end so badly.

I hid so much of this from M. She really has no idea. She says I’m crazy, but it’s not that I’m crazy. I just FEEL so much. I’m an emotional person by nature. And I let it get to me. I think that she oversimplified me. She had no idea what kind of impact leaving would have on me. Not that I think things would be any better had she actually known. In fact, she might have treated me worse.

She left me on April Fool’s Day. Very apropos. You know the story. What you don’t know is what I did a week later. I guess that’s the idea. Trying to drown myself in a pool wasn’t a cry for attention. It’s why I never mentioned it before. In fact, I’m a little embarrassed for failing. I can’t even do that right. One week after M left me, I got drunk. I had a lot of rum lying around to finish. I really shouldn’t have been drinking that much.

I was still confused. I still am, I guess. I didn’t understand why she left. Why she had hurt me. Why she still seems to gain self-satisfaction in watching me tumble and twirl to the floor. Drunk, I finished off half a bottle of sleeping pills and passed out in the living room, thankful that my life was all over. I woke up in a pile of my own vomit. My overindulgences had saved me.

After this attempt, and the attempt at the pool party, I was ashamed of myself. I understood how stupid it was to try and kill myself. I just didn’t know at the time I was swallowing pill after pill. And it goes in that cycle. I can spend most of the day just fine. And then two hours at night will send me over the edge. Sometimes all it takes is a flickering image in my head.