"I found my thrill, on Blueberry hill..."

I've decided to keep up with this diary. Not as much as I used to, but once in a while.
A clean start. The past is in the past. I'd like to clear the air first.

This isn't a good story. The character doesn't reach any resolution. There are no great changes. It's only... what it is. truth. words.

I have drank almost every week since I was 12. Wine, beer, liquor, you name it. I'll drink anything. Since highschool, I have drank almost everyday.

I got hooked on narcotics after breaking my ankle and discovering the pleasure of morphine while in the hospital after surgery was needed. I'm on oxycodone right now as I type this.

I was born to a neurotic Mother and a schizophrenic Father who was addicted to booze and heroin, almost 24 years years ago in Philadelphia. My mother took me away from him when I was young. I had a good childhood. I was never abused. I was loved. I led a good life.

Five years went by, and things fell apart between me and her. I found myself in a crisis response center while she was walking philadelphia alone because I said words that broke her heart. We were both in bad shape. I came home after being told that I was showing "textbook" symptoms of bipolar disorder [manic-depression]. She came home and cried in the dark bedroom.

It was a dark night. I had said bad things to a good girl. Everything was fucked.

And I think back on that last month living with her, and I am filled with sadness.

These are the memories that make me cry.

We still slept together after we broke up. I liked it. It was nice. It helped me miss her, because I wouldn't show it. I thought I needed to hide that. be tough. be the strong one. It was a mistake. It was really just a breakdown in communication.

she had met someone else.

but I didn't know that until later.

these are the memories that make me cry.

"did he fuck you here?"
"did he drink from my glasses?"
"did he drink my alcohol?"
"did you like it?"
"did he fuck you with our pictures watching?"

our pictures.

our pictures.

in small frames, over looking the bed. Pictures of me and her, wrapped together. In love. Just me and her.

I didn't see the damage I had been doing. I didn't see her broken room or the scared cats. I saw him on top of her, with pictures of me and her watching.

I smashed the pictures.

I grabbed my whiskey and downed it. I packed up some leftover things. I left a final note.

"never coming back"

I had learned to hate someone I had never met.

"I think I just did a bad thing..." I told her, my voice in pieces. I explain what I did.

I grew angry. I got upset. When I knew she had gotten home, I sent her a text message over her phone which made a bad situation worse. I was doing everything wrong, but I didn't know how to stop.

I told her that by now, she could see how I was feeling. And that I wanted her to suffer like I was suffering. She thought I was going to hurt her.

I made a bad mistake.

these are the memories that make me cry.

the cops are on their way. Her voice was trembling. she was scared of me.

the cops are on their fucking way

what have I done? What have I done? What have I done? She was scared of me. What have I done? I scared her. The girl I would protect against God's angels when the apocolypse came. The girl I would never dream of hurting.

I left.

I called her.

"I just wanted to talk. Please don't be scared of me."
"The cops are on their way"
"I'm not near your place. I'm going home. I'm sorry. I just wanted to talk. I just wanted to talk. I'm sorry."

A few days later, we agree to talk. In public. In a park. Around 6pm.

She would only meet me in a public place.

what have I done? What have I done?

"I never saw myself like that before either."

We part ways, on better terms. She says one of the ways I can make it up to her is to watch the cats while she's gone for a week in LA. I agree.

We talk more over the next week. Things get better between us. I rebuild her trust, somewhat.

I tell her I can still try to be friends.

while she's away in LA, I make another bad mistake. I send her a text message. I can't do it. I can't be friends with her anymore. It hurts too much knowing she's with someone else. It hurts. I can't do it. She get angry. I'm bothering her while she's trying to enjoy her vacation. I keep making mistakes. fuck.

I offer to meet her at the airport when she gets back. It will be late. I want to be there and make sure she gets home ok. I plan to open my heart to her when we get back to her place. Throw myself down and tell her how much I love her. How much I need her. How much I miss her.
while waiting, I spot someone by the soda machine that looks like her new man. I had seen his picture on friendster. I tell myself it's not him. It's not him. He asks someone about the flight she's coming in on. It's not him. It's not him. Just a coincidence. Keep telling yourself that.
I go back to the terminal and wait for her. She walks out after a little while and she looks great. We smile. kick each other's feet. Don't hug. She looks great. I want to kiss her. We don't touch. We walk away. Back to luggage claim.

It's him.

She flashes a huge smile and walks over to him. She asks what he's doing here. I walk away, that's all I hear. I walk off to the side. I watch. I look away. I watch. I look away. For 15 minutes she's quietly explaining to him what's going on. I'm falling apart. I'm in a place that never hurt this bad.

I'm in hell.

I get her luggage. He walks off. She walks back over to me. I tell her I need a cigarette. My hands are trembling. Not with anger, I'm too timid and broken to get angry anymore. they tremble with fear. Sorrow. Heartbreak.

She asks me if I'm upset while we wait for the cab, I say yes, and she asks why. I didn't understand the question.
"Do you expect me not to be?
"No. But I thought we talked about this. What did you expect was going to happen tonight?"
"I don't know. I don't know"
"I thought you were picking me up as one last kind gesture, and that would be it. We'd go our ways. Is that what you thought?"
a long pause. staring at the ground. smoking.
"...yes."
I sit and stare and the ground. Waiting for a cab. It comes. We get in. We drive off. She's staring out the window and crying. She looked bad in front of him. She cried because she thinks he will think badly of her. My heartbreaks more. She doesn't care about how upset I am. It's just the way it's going. It's the way it is. I put my hand on her. I want to pull her into my arms and hold and hug and never let her go. She's upset, and I can't do anything to comfort her. I have failed her. I have failed myself. I have failed us.

I made a bad mistake.

These are the memories that make me cry.

It only serves to piss her off. Only serves to annoy her. I say I'm going to stop talking to her. I try. But I couldn't do it. I try. I can't. try. fail. She grows more aggitated. I grow more hurt. I need her. For five years she was the only one I could turn to, and now she's the last person I can turn to. It hurts. I try. I fail. She's annoyed with me.

I put my heart out to her, and she stabs it. I do it again. again. again. again. again. stab stab stab. It's not her fault. It's mine. I should of learned. Lab mice are smarter then me at this point.

I turn back to an old friend. Booze. Oh god, how I turn back to this old friend. Everynight. All week. For two months. I was on a two month bender, and I was trying to destroy my love for her. It was useless without her. It was useless. I had no need for it.

I had a mountain of worthless property.

My contact with her grew less. I was learning to distract myself. She found new flesh and new friends for distractions. I found my old friend. My dear old friend. She took my love and she took it all.

One night, in bed, I couldn't sleep. I closed my eyes and I saw her and him laughing and holding each other on our old bed. I wailed. I stood up, grabbed my pocket knife. razor sharp. sharp sharp sharp. The pain was constant. The heartbreak was never ending. It was always there. Even when I was blacking out, filled with my dear old friend, it was still there. It was always there. As long as my heartbeat, my heart broke. I turned on the bathroom light and stared at myself. I had stopped eating. The sight of food made me sick. I wanted to eat. It made me sick. I had to force myself to eat a small amount every other day. Many nights went by where I woke up and fell asleep without a piece of food put in my mouth. I stared at myself. I had lost 10 pounds in two months simply from not eating.

I opened the pocket knife. I stared at myself. The heartbreak would not go away. It would not fucking go away.

I pressed the knife onto my chest and pushed. The hairs on my chest split like paper.

I cut.

I pressed. I cut. I pressed. I cut. I pressed. I cut. Stop thinking of her. Stop thinking of them. Stop feeling sorrow. Stop feeling. Stop feeling. Focus on something else. Feel something else. Anything. Need to feel ANYTHING other then my heartbreaking. I pressed. I cut.

I stared at myself in the mirror.

What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?

red lines zig-zagged across my body. They glistened in the yellow bathroom light. I bled. I bled.

I pressed. I cut. I bled.

The cutting continued for a month. Anytime I thought about them laughing, holding, kissing, I cut. At work. At home. Out on the streets, in dark alleys. I distracted myself. I felt something different. I felt burning physical pain instead of heartbreak. It was working. I cut my arms a few times, but stopped cutting there because of questions. I used my body so no one would see. This wasn't a call for pity, a call for help. I didn't want anyone knowing. I didn't want anyone seeing. I didn't want questions. It was mine. Mine. Mine. My dark little secret. It was mine. It was my way of feeling something different.

Since that night at the airport, I locked myself away. I didn't eat. I drank and cried myself to sleep everynight. I cut. I laughed. I cried. I cut. I drank. All at once. One at time. It was working.

This continued for a while. I stopped talking to her. I stopped talking to her. I didn't look at her website because she would put words that he sent her. I didn't look at her photographs, because she had pictures of them up. I took her off my AIM because I didn't want to know where she was. I was learning to let go. Piece by piece, it was all going away.

I did I bad thing.

These are the memories that make me cry.

I stopped cutting. It wasn't needed anymore. I was able to handle the sorrow without the distraction.

two months of cutting. booze. blackouts. crying. starvation. blood. Wandering the streets in a drunken haze. waking up with vomit on my shirt. waking up on the floor. waking up on the sidewalk. waking up on a park bench. two months.

[art conspiracy journal entry written while blacked out]
8/21/2003 1:06:00 AM -
"i started the staggering walk home from old city just pat midnight. NOt saying goodbye to anyone. I just left. it was somehwere near 4th and spruce when I started muttreing "i can make it home" over and over. Passing by a graveyard, it exp[anded; "graveyards full of ghosts. I can make oit home.I can make itr home to her graveyards frulll of ghosts." bright porch lights blarred= at me. " I can make ir home, to her rbight lights and graveyards full of ghosts. I can amke it home. i can make t home. i can make it home, i can make it home." I stood on the corneer of 6th and pine and stared at the cross secitiojn. "I can make it home." I muttered again. I can make it home. I made tyhe turn and walked down 6th. "I used to ive on this street. i used to love on this sttrreet? I can make it home toher bright lights and graveyards. I can step infront of these bright lights abd make it home. I can make ot home. to her gravefyardds full of ghosts and bright lightss. I can make ir homme. I can step infront opf thse bright lights abd make it ghom,:"

I can't understannd

typingh when I never made it home."

I smiled at myself in the mirror. I could still taste vomit in my mouth. I brushed my teeth. I showered. I washed my hair. I shaved. I smiled. I took a walk. It was a nice day.

A car horn and drunken people yelling woke me up a little over an hour later. I was groggy, half asleep. A little numbed still from the codeine. I lit a cigarette. Got up. Limped home. Fell back asleep watching TV.

If it's not booze, lately it's been my other dear old friend, narcotics. Percocets specifically, prescribed for a throat infection. I suffered through the pain, pain was my friend, my ally, I could suck up as much as myself or anyone could dish out. The more given, the more I loved it. I saved the pills. I used them when I didn't need them anymore. I used them just to feel them in my blood, to feel them choke my spinal cord. The high is much cleaner then booze. It's a constant feeling in your stomach that you're about to start giggling. You feel like you're floating. Disconnected from your aches.
but coming down off it ten times worse then booze. Opiates give you a hangover in one single tidal-wave like rush when it's wearing off. No morning after shit. You get it hours later. You go pale. Cold sweats. Nausea. Sickness. Constipation. Your body slows down. You stumble. You itch. You hold yourself up. You shake. You're cold. Your head hurts. Your mouth turns to a desert. Your vision gets blurry. Wandering the streets late at night, coming off oxycodone is not fun. The right people steered away from me. The wrong people followed me. The cops stare as they drive by.

I couldn't see myself being alive.

There isn't a day that goes by where I don't smile at least once when I think of her.

I made bad mistakes.

these are the memories that make me cry.

these are just memories.

-Gillian Welch & Alison Krauss, "I'll Fly Away"