(no subject)
I don't like this.
Not one bit.
I am alone in this house and I hate it.
Ok... Papa's here.. but he doesn't really count because he's 93 and asleep.
He's a good amount of the reason I don't like this.
He could die at any minute.
And I will be alone to handle it.
Someone could break into the house.
And I will be alone to handle it.
I could get hurt.
And no one will be here to handle it.
This house scares the shit out of me at night.
And no one is here to comfort me.
I have to sleep in Nannys room.
It is not comfortable for me.
Ever since she died I have not felt comfortable in this house.
She's here I can feel it.
Especially in her room.
Where she died.
It was just over 2 years ago....
I don't know if most people would be over it all by now...
I don't know how to mourn.
I don't know how to accept someones death.
I was 17 when she died.
It was my first death.
I don't know what to do.
I miss her so much...
I never got the chance to say goodbye.
I didn't get to tell her I loved her.
I hadn't even talked to her since 2 months before she died.
I'm a horrible person.
Who was I to assume she would be there next time I got to see her?
How was that my place?
There are so many things about me left unsaid to her.
Things I want her to know.
I want her to know I'm queer.
I'm not straight.
I don't follow heteronormativity.
I'm not the girl she thought I was, infact I am a better man than she could know.
I wish I could have told her all that.
I've said it to her grave.
The plot.
The giant rock with her name on it.
But that's not where she is.
She is here.
In that room.
But I can't bring myself to talk to her.
I'm so scared of what she would say.
Yes, I know she is past, but that does not mean she cannot speak.
Maybe not with words, but she can speak.
I miss my Nanny.
More than I'll ever admit again.
I still have nightmares about the night she died.
Yes, we were in two different states, and I had not a thing to do with it.
I know in no way was it my fault.
But I still hate myself for what I was doing.
While Nanny was dying I was getting high.
While everyone was rushing to the hospital, I was getting high.
While everyone was crying, I was high.
I was driving around.
High.
I was smoking weed while driving around.
Drinking Gatorade and eating some kind of junk food.
She was dying, I was high.
When she was taken off support, pronounced dead,
I was popping pills with my friend in my bed.
I took a shot of whiskey and giggled like a fool.
She was gasping her final breath.
Leaving this world.
I was fucking high.
My family was crying, hurt, depressed.
I was high.
I was happy.
I couldn't have given two shits about anyone.
She was dead.
I will never forgive myself for that.
Ever
This whole entry has gone on far too long.
I'm shaking.
Crying.
Hurting.
More upset than I was when I started.
I wish I had some weed.
Ironic, isn't it?