(no subject)
Well that fuck Jerry
(http://www.livejournal.com/users/_Countdown)
finally deleted his pathetic suicide journal. Thank Christ.
I wonder where all the guidance counselors, mental health professionals, and the fair citizens of this world in general were at when I physically attacked this dickhead on my team in the dugout during the district semifinals and got myself kicked off the team, went from straight A's to straight F's, dropped out of school, started selling my shit (and when my shit ran out, other people's shit) for meth, and drinking Kentucky Deluxe in the morning at the age of sixteen and eventually taking a seat behind the wheel of my 1973 Caprice as it ran inside my parents' closed garage?
I'll bet at least a few of the people who might have noticed and done something were coddling little poser fucks like this Jerry kid while I was busy offing myself. I didn't fucking advertise like that little pussy, but it didn't take Hannibal Lecter to notice some shit was up with me, but it never crossed anyone's mind that I might do something like that because I didn't fucking advertise.
If my mom hadn't forgotten her laptop and come back for it, I would be in the ground right now. I was in the middle of one serious head rush when the door opened behind me. I threw the Caprice into reverse and mashed the ass end of it into my mom's minivan, pushed it out of the way, and tore ruts across the yard as I got away. I ended up putting it in a ditch and running from the cops for a few days.
When somebody's going to off himself, he doesn't post a whiny pissass LiveJournal about it. He just goddamned does it.
My subsequent captivity pulled me out of "get me the fuck off this rock" mode and into "I'd be happy if I was just outside walking around" mode. Otherwise, I might have finished the job. When I got out, everyone reached out to me. My former employer whom I fucked over pretty badly, my teachers who offered to take time outside their schedule to help me get caught up, and my family all bent over backwards to get me back on track.
The thing is, I was doped up on Paxil. Initially, I tried to do my best by everyone who was trying to help me, but the Paxil was crippling. I was lethargic. I was depressed instead of angry. I basically shirked my way out of doing anything after that. Became a severe pothead. Broke off contact with everyone. Got back into tweaking.
One day I drove to the next town with a couple of friends to get some crank. The girlfriend of the guy who was selling it was bitching because their landlord wouldn't allow them to get the puppy she wanted, a Saint Bernard. I was pretty much in "fuck it" mode about everything at that point and would do anything at any time. Joy ride in a stolen van. Shoplift. Huff CO2. Take turns passing each other out against a wall. I was unraveling and my behavior was getting weirder and weirder, just like before.
So what the hell. I picked up the dog.
I don't know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't what I got. This charismatic, intuitive little creature became the focus of every waking our that I wasn't at work, both because of her charm and because of her precociousness. I soon realized that my car, the $300 piece of shit '82 Mercury I was temporarily living at the time since another big blowout with my parents a couple weeks before, was no place to raise a pup like her.
I tried to bring her home, but the parents wouldn't have it, so I got a shitty little $150/month one room dwelling. I really can't fault them for that. My brother was wasting away with lymphoma and my behavior had acheived nothing for years besides tearing the family apart. Them turning me away might have been the thing that made it possible for there to be a family to return to when I finally straightened myself out (something that no one could have done for me).
Again, my drug habits and my self-destructive behavior started to spin out of control again until one thing snapped me back to reality: there she was, tail wagging, head cocked to one side, her gaze shifting from me to the kitchenette and back again in anticipation, those big puppy eyes gleaming. And I had nothing to feed her. I don't think I ever loathed myself more at any other time than I did at that moment. It's amazing how another being's dependence on you influences your will to care for yourself. The effect is nothing short of profound.
It wasn't easy to give up the seductive freedoms of bachelorhood to move back home and once again subject myself to the "my roof, my rules" system of government that ruled the household. It certainly wasn't easy having a heart to heart with my conservative Republican parents about all of my drug shit, but they let me come back home with her in tow and I finally got my shit together. All I kept thinking about is how much more she'd enjoy my parents' huge yard.
So I got my shit together and eventually, though it took quite some time, I actually started to give a shit about myself. It was at that point that I said goodbye to the few friends that I was still friends with even when I was sober and said goodbye to the town that promised to suck me back into the darkest depths of its filthy underworld the moment I let my guard down.
It's a damn good thing dogs don't specifically understand what a promise is, because I have broken my promise to come back for her. On one hand, I feel terribly guilty and miss her like crazy. On the other, I know I finally did right by her. She's getting the best of care and she's happy where she's at, but she's also very sick these days. As busy as I am with work and school, I don't think I could possibly match the bedside manner my mom gives her. My mom waits on her hand and foot and when she's too weak to eat, she spoons feeds her broth until her strength returns.
As much as it hurts, this arrangement is the right one.
On my own with a clean slate, I finally realize that whatever's wrong with me isn't event related. These rushes of crippling sadness and rage come without provocation. Something is fundamentally awry with me, but I see that now. It's neurotransmitters. My own body chemistry lying to me, telling me things are much worse than they are. Sometimes this knowledge gives me little or no consolation, but for the most part, the urges to slip back into my self-destructive chaos of drugs and alcohol are totally manageable.
My heart is still sore in a few spots, but life is fucking good. In fact, it's awesome. I'm a little pissed off that it's so fucking short, but I plan on making damn sure I finish my extensive To-Do list before I go.
What if my mom hadn't forgotten her laptop? Sometimes I wonder if she didn't and this is just some kind of unconscious wish fulfillment I'm experiencing in a dream I'm having while asleep in the next world...because...it just doesn't make sense that she forgot a thing like that. Ever.
(http://www.livejournal.com/users/_Countdown)
finally deleted his pathetic suicide journal. Thank Christ.
I wonder where all the guidance counselors, mental health professionals, and the fair citizens of this world in general were at when I physically attacked this dickhead on my team in the dugout during the district semifinals and got myself kicked off the team, went from straight A's to straight F's, dropped out of school, started selling my shit (and when my shit ran out, other people's shit) for meth, and drinking Kentucky Deluxe in the morning at the age of sixteen and eventually taking a seat behind the wheel of my 1973 Caprice as it ran inside my parents' closed garage?
I'll bet at least a few of the people who might have noticed and done something were coddling little poser fucks like this Jerry kid while I was busy offing myself. I didn't fucking advertise like that little pussy, but it didn't take Hannibal Lecter to notice some shit was up with me, but it never crossed anyone's mind that I might do something like that because I didn't fucking advertise.
If my mom hadn't forgotten her laptop and come back for it, I would be in the ground right now. I was in the middle of one serious head rush when the door opened behind me. I threw the Caprice into reverse and mashed the ass end of it into my mom's minivan, pushed it out of the way, and tore ruts across the yard as I got away. I ended up putting it in a ditch and running from the cops for a few days.
When somebody's going to off himself, he doesn't post a whiny pissass LiveJournal about it. He just goddamned does it.
My subsequent captivity pulled me out of "get me the fuck off this rock" mode and into "I'd be happy if I was just outside walking around" mode. Otherwise, I might have finished the job. When I got out, everyone reached out to me. My former employer whom I fucked over pretty badly, my teachers who offered to take time outside their schedule to help me get caught up, and my family all bent over backwards to get me back on track.
The thing is, I was doped up on Paxil. Initially, I tried to do my best by everyone who was trying to help me, but the Paxil was crippling. I was lethargic. I was depressed instead of angry. I basically shirked my way out of doing anything after that. Became a severe pothead. Broke off contact with everyone. Got back into tweaking.
One day I drove to the next town with a couple of friends to get some crank. The girlfriend of the guy who was selling it was bitching because their landlord wouldn't allow them to get the puppy she wanted, a Saint Bernard. I was pretty much in "fuck it" mode about everything at that point and would do anything at any time. Joy ride in a stolen van. Shoplift. Huff CO2. Take turns passing each other out against a wall. I was unraveling and my behavior was getting weirder and weirder, just like before.
So what the hell. I picked up the dog.
I don't know what I was expecting, but it certainly wasn't what I got. This charismatic, intuitive little creature became the focus of every waking our that I wasn't at work, both because of her charm and because of her precociousness. I soon realized that my car, the $300 piece of shit '82 Mercury I was temporarily living at the time since another big blowout with my parents a couple weeks before, was no place to raise a pup like her.
I tried to bring her home, but the parents wouldn't have it, so I got a shitty little $150/month one room dwelling. I really can't fault them for that. My brother was wasting away with lymphoma and my behavior had acheived nothing for years besides tearing the family apart. Them turning me away might have been the thing that made it possible for there to be a family to return to when I finally straightened myself out (something that no one could have done for me).
Again, my drug habits and my self-destructive behavior started to spin out of control again until one thing snapped me back to reality: there she was, tail wagging, head cocked to one side, her gaze shifting from me to the kitchenette and back again in anticipation, those big puppy eyes gleaming. And I had nothing to feed her. I don't think I ever loathed myself more at any other time than I did at that moment. It's amazing how another being's dependence on you influences your will to care for yourself. The effect is nothing short of profound.
It wasn't easy to give up the seductive freedoms of bachelorhood to move back home and once again subject myself to the "my roof, my rules" system of government that ruled the household. It certainly wasn't easy having a heart to heart with my conservative Republican parents about all of my drug shit, but they let me come back home with her in tow and I finally got my shit together. All I kept thinking about is how much more she'd enjoy my parents' huge yard.
So I got my shit together and eventually, though it took quite some time, I actually started to give a shit about myself. It was at that point that I said goodbye to the few friends that I was still friends with even when I was sober and said goodbye to the town that promised to suck me back into the darkest depths of its filthy underworld the moment I let my guard down.
It's a damn good thing dogs don't specifically understand what a promise is, because I have broken my promise to come back for her. On one hand, I feel terribly guilty and miss her like crazy. On the other, I know I finally did right by her. She's getting the best of care and she's happy where she's at, but she's also very sick these days. As busy as I am with work and school, I don't think I could possibly match the bedside manner my mom gives her. My mom waits on her hand and foot and when she's too weak to eat, she spoons feeds her broth until her strength returns.
As much as it hurts, this arrangement is the right one.
On my own with a clean slate, I finally realize that whatever's wrong with me isn't event related. These rushes of crippling sadness and rage come without provocation. Something is fundamentally awry with me, but I see that now. It's neurotransmitters. My own body chemistry lying to me, telling me things are much worse than they are. Sometimes this knowledge gives me little or no consolation, but for the most part, the urges to slip back into my self-destructive chaos of drugs and alcohol are totally manageable.
My heart is still sore in a few spots, but life is fucking good. In fact, it's awesome. I'm a little pissed off that it's so fucking short, but I plan on making damn sure I finish my extensive To-Do list before I go.
What if my mom hadn't forgotten her laptop? Sometimes I wonder if she didn't and this is just some kind of unconscious wish fulfillment I'm experiencing in a dream I'm having while asleep in the next world...because...it just doesn't make sense that she forgot a thing like that. Ever.