I remember the moment that I kissed a guy and actually fell in love. I remember the moment I hooked up with a guy I had no feelings for and was just bored. I remember the moment I could no longer count on one hand the number of guys I had fucked. Then it went on to where I couldn’t count them on two hands. Or three. I remember the girls I swore that were my soulmates and how sex with guys truly disgusts me unless I’m too fucked up to function, and then next thing you know, I’m strung out on Xanax and cocaine and drunk off my ass and passing out and getting raped. My life has gone into total chaos in just the matter of a few months. My mind has declined rapidly in the aspect of my mental health. I just returned from my 2nd stay in a psych ward this year but I’ve been 3 weeks sober as of today. Well, I still smoke the devil’s lettuce just about every night before bed, but that is mainly to cope with my stress and to help me sleep more than a few hours. Or you know, that’s what I keep telling myself so I can justify getting goofy ass stoned every night.
I’m lost somewhere inside my head and I don’t know if I will ever find my way back out. I think this is what insane feels like. I need a gallon of vodka with some Mike’s Hard Lemonade to chase it with. Anything to help me stop fucking thinking. This loneliness is killing me. I’m missing guys that I never gave a shit about just because I can’t handle sleeping in my bed alone. At the same time, I don’t want to be with any guy because I’m scared of sex now. Scared of someone else violating me, taking advantage of me. I feel guilty and that’s why I stopped drinking so I could never put myself in a situation like that again. I even moved out of the house with my friends and now am staying at my parent’s guest house to get away from the trap house life.
The more I study myself from a purely observational view, the more I realize that I am honestly a shitty person. Hey, at least I can admit it right? I look at how my life has ended up going and all I see is ruined relationships, friendships, and empty bottles of booze and anti-depressants.
Actually, it’s no surprise that I’m here at this stage in my life, it’s like I, this little wild, carefree, selfish brat ran straight into the life I’m in without a second thought. And that is what happened. I just didn’t care about a single goddamn thing except living in the moment I was in. And I’m still like that. I have no foresight, and to be honest, my hindsight isn’t that good either. So here I stand at only 20 with more mental illnesses than I knew someone could be diagnosed with, a problem with alcoholism, and problems staying faithful to the guy I love fiercely and getting the girls I date to love me back. I am a stranger in my own mind. A shell of a person. Walking emptiness.
Death doesn’t scare me. Living another 60 years or more like this does. The future terrifies me and my past shames me. That’s why I focus on the moment. And it’s this devotion to the moment that will kill me. My sheer impulsiveness is the reason I am the way I am. It’s my biggest vice and probably always will be.