On dying

A friend of mine asked me an interesting question yesterday. If I died, would I be alone? The answer is sadly yes.

I don’t allow anyone to get close enough to me to really love them. Or more accurately, I love them until they love me.

I put on such a nice act. Corporate Barbie with the pearls and the dresses when in actuality my brain is on fire. I spend all day so immersed in my job and worried that everyone is out to get me that I don’t live. I don’t do anything exciting, I can’t remember what I ate today, and I can’t remember the last time I was overwhelmingly happy, at least while sober.

I spent all night last night crying. I don’t know why but I think it has something to do with the fact that I’m trying not to binge. If I’m not binging I’m crying. Crying for the years I’ve lost and the memories I’ve forgotten and the dreams I’ve let go to just exist. If I died today there wouldn’t be one interesting thing to say about me. Except she was as druggie whore who would rather spend her time in the bathroom than participating in life.

I don’t want my story to end that way.

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