Here’s your fucking blog


The worst part is not having anywhere to run to. No one to run to. And sometimes I want to run so bad that it’s painful. Sometimes I want a best friend to run to or a place I can go to feel better. To feel comfortable. Comforted. I haven’t found that yet. Making friends is pretty hard when you get older. That’s something people overlook a lot I think. I think because you’ve already established your circle. I don’t have a circle yet. My circle is a mashup of people preoccupied with their own lives and that’s good. That’s how they should be. It’s on me to talk about this stuff. I find myself trying to scream sometimes but I can’t because I’m not comfortable enough. I want to yell for help but I don’t even know what I need. It’s painful looking for an outlet and being disappointed by every single one. I miss drinking, a lot. That addiction made me unique in some ways. It made me feel confident. Disappearing didn’t matter as much. Running didn’t matter. I didn’t care about how I appeared or what I did and everything hurt less. In the midst of it though I was hurting people I love more than myself. But if I could, I think I’d save myself again. It was nice to know I was slowly dying sometimes. It was nice to know if I kept going it wouldn’t last much longer. I look at my life and what’s ahead and all I can see is how very over it already is. This is as good as it’s going to get. I have reached the highest I’ll go. I feel that in my soul. I can see that I was never meant to be heard or make any difference or change anything. I’m just another complainer that’s worn out their welcome. It’s painful but why should that matter? I feel loneliest when I have no one to listen to me. I write and I know I’m writing to myself. I know I’m speaking to myself. You might see these words but it won’t make a dent or an impact because we all have our own lives and our own problems. I just wanted to help people. I wanted other people to not have to feel like this and I know now that I can’t fix anyone. I’m not a professional. How would I know what’s right or what to do? I’m going to break someone more. I’m going to make things so much worse. Just because I’m going through or have gone through it doesn’t mean I have any answers. And what am I doing to myself? I’m being the person other people can turn to while I have no one to turn to myself. I’ve become this bag for other people’s things and my things don’t even fit anymore. I empty my things into this blog and they have no where to go but out onto the internet. Into the open where someone won’t read them until I die because they won’t matter until someone’s trying to remember me or know what I was like. I don’t even know who’d show up. I’ve never felt lonelier than when someone pretends to be listening. At that point they don’t even respect you enough to be honest. They don’t respect you enough to just hear you. To give you their time. And when it’s someone that means a lot to you, you know you don’t mean the same. You know you don’t hold the same importance to them. You know you can’t trust them or depend on them. So you end up talking to yourself which you’ve already been doing your entire life. You were hopeful that you found someone. You were optimistic in a very cautious way. And either you fulfilled your own prophecy or the world is just that way. Who the fuck knows. This is not going to be a good day. It’ll pass. It always does. I always get through it. I’m reassuring myself here. I love my kids.

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