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Here I am at home, my first time missing work due to my mental state.



I woke up in a bad mood, the ringing phone made things worse, and next thing I knew, I was laughing in my "other" voice--the voice few people have ever heard.



The knives in my house look evermore appealing. The pills look oh so yummy. I'd like nothing more than to sleep the unending sleep of the dead.



I feel myself gradually descending into the depths of madness, and I fear that no one can help me.



What in the hell is it that keeps me going? Why am I still here? How could I possibly continue to draw breath?



Again, knowing I'm the first one to preach the philosophy of not letting "them" win, that I can't be hurt unless I allow it to happen, but in this instance, it feels more like I'm at war with my own mind.



I have to go now; I suddenly have the urge to listen to Megadeth's "Sweating Bullets"...

Timing visits to my doctor to correspond with the times that my medications run out is damned near impossible. So here I am with another nine days until I can see him for a progress update, and a mere three doses remain of the only thing that keeps me sane and emotionally balanced. (although "sane" is a relative term, all things considered)



I know; some people know me for my disdain of people who cannot face day to day life without viewing it through an alcohol or narcotic induced haze. But here I am in an emotional slump, absolutely distraught, looking at my collection of knives and daggers with a new eagerness to put them to good use, craving the sight, smell and taste of blood, be it mine or someone else's. And all because of a chemical dependency.



Yeah, me; the one who pushes natural herbal supplements, hates artificial chemistry, preaches the philosophy of never consuming anything one cannot pronounce. Yeah, I'm sitting here suffering severe mood swings and fits of vertigo like some sort of aged alcoholic who's out on the street begging people for a few pennies for "gas for my (nonexistent) car" or a "sandwich from the deli" just so I can gather that cash for my next bottle of cheap wine. (MD 20/20 anyone?)



Pathetic.



So now I'm enjoying a hot soak, listening to the sounds of Tomas Walker and Sacred Spirit, burning frankincense, and semi relaxed.



But I can't help but keep comparing myself to that multi pack-a-day smoker who is damned near shaking from withdrawl if they have to go more than ten minutes without a cigarette. Or that reefer addict who is so desperate to get home and flame up that they cannot focus on anything else. (And no, I don't knock the reefer as much as I used to--on the contrary, regardless of my disdain for it, I still find it more acceptable than alcohol or harsher narcotics--I just can't stand the "addicts") Or that wino who can't even keep food down because it's been so long since anything but booze has hit his stomach.



And apparently, it's because when I was a kid, some punk who was afraid to fight, clubbed me in the head with a baseball bat. So now, because some pussy was a pussy, I have to be medicated in order to function in society.



I apologise to the people who have my journal tagged as a "favourite", I know you folks didn't do so just to hear some "emo kid bitchiness" from an adult, but here it is anyways. Sorry.



It's a rough road, and I just have to try and make it without "breaking bones". But who knows if I can?



"Only time"...