i'm naked inside my fear

November 30, 2002 | 4:25 am
on the count of three lets all look at what time my posts are.

and then, after that, lets consider the amount of alcohol a person like me consumes at these times.

and then lets consider how long it's taken me to post lately.

fuck vivian cole. the stupid bitch thinks i need inpatient. and fucking why? because the bitch doesn't know how to help me.

i laid it out to her. my diagnosis. i'm not a fucking idiot. in the past i've been diagnosed with anorexia, EDNOS, bipolar disorder, and clinical depression.

this is the way it is, bitch. i'm bad off without my lithium and zoloft.

but, you know, whatever. she wants to throw me in a fucking hospital and fix me because she can't figure it out.

some of it irritates me, but a lot of it makes me even more depressed. I FUCKING PAY YOU $100 AN HOUR AND ---YOU--- CAN'T EVEN FIX ME.

and maybe i put too much on her. but who is supposed to take it? me?

i understand, probably, yeah, most peopl deal with their own shit.

but comeon now. obviously i can't. how many times have i tried to kill myself now? how many times have i mixed drugs with alcohol and gotten in my fucking car going 100 on the way home?

and why do i care again? what do i have to fucking look forward to?

sure, i want to go to law school. i want to change a life or two and do something with myself.

but i wouldn't care if i drowned in the bathtub or slammed the cherry accord into a fucking tree.

really, i wouldn't.

so if any "accidents" occur, don't fret. what parents buy life insurance for a 19 year-old child? (mine)

lets take a moment to reflect on that.

i really shouldn't drink so much. i'm happy at first, but then.. damn.. i get pretty fucking depressed.

before | after