Here I am again, the same place I was last time...and the time before. This is why you left me.
My parents can’t call anymore because I sold my phone, I “needed” the money. I wouldn’t wanna talk to them anyways, mom tells me she loves me and then lectures me and tells me “You need to let Jesus in your heart Jon.” I would rather make this faulty muscle stop beating with what I’m doing than talk to that asshole again.
Jesus that is.
My mom is a sweetheart.
Well, I guess he’s not that bad but his dad is a fucking dick.
He let my friends die and left me to say I’m sorry to their parents.
Dad just talks circles around telling me how disappointed he is in me. Kinda like every drunk Christmas fight I’ve ever started.
I shouldn’t have drunk that much huckleberry vodka but I just can’t stand hearing people talk and say “hero” when I'm just a piece of shit who talks to ghosts.
All the heroes I know are dead.
All the heroes I know are dead.
This is why people don’t like me. I guess this is why I don’t talk to the family anymore and this is why everyone left me and why I’m sitting here, again.
I’ve started to try to map the stars in the track marks. I wish I could break apart my DNA or rip apart my atoms to become stardust once more, I just hate the makeup of myself so much but I appreciate what I’ve come from.
Minus this faulty genetics that makes me so fucking weak.
Minus this faulty genetics that makes me so fucking weak.
The doors won’t open for another hour and I’m running out of ink in this pen I stole from the last homeless shelter. Hopefully, they will see me and I’ll get a small fix, methadone clinics are weird places to make friends by the way.
The lady at the front counter has started to recognize me, she looks so sad when our eyes meet.
I feel like I've let her down too.
Her son was lost in Afghan too.
The lady at the front counter has started to recognize me, she looks so sad when our eyes meet.
I feel like I've let her down too.
Her son was lost in Afghan too.
I just wish I could stop running, it’s weird to feel tired no matter how much I sleep and to feel like I’m running even when I’m so high I couldn’t move if I tried. This goddamn brain won’t shut off.
It won’t stop replaying bad days and I wish I could remember the good ones more.
I wish the pills still worked but I took a dive faster than an Olympic gold medalist into the pool of “opioid abuse,” I think I went deeper too, I just couldn’t tread water so now I’m drowning in my problems.
Do you know how hard it is to run from your problems in water?
Why won’t these fucking doors open?
Well, the pen is starting to blotch.
I think it’s time to drift into my paracosm.
It’s a place where I’m not a fuck up and my friends are alive.
And we aren't ass deep in sand and blood either.
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| Registered nurse Mimi DeGange operates the dispensing window at the Center for Drug Problems in Anchorage. Is Methadone the answer? |
My first husband was a Vietnam Veteran. The smell of tar being put on the road would send him, all 6'4" 287lbs, to a dark room crying and yelling. Would not return for days. He drank Vodka. He drank ALOT of Vodka. Half gallon every day and a half. I got off work at 4:30 and started calling home at 2-2:30 to see A)how drunk he was B)what kind of need he was in and C)if he was still alive. He had horrific nightmares that shook his soul every night. He hated night time, bed time, time to close his eyes. The enemy took him from this earth Aug.14, 2001. John Marc Livingston never found freedom, peace nor a feeling of healing. I have you both in my heart a special place. One Jon alive one John gone. Peace be with you both
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