I Wear My Crown Of Thorns Upon My Liar's Chair....

I might as well admit it. I've been depressed for two goddamn months, despite my best efforts at fighting it off. The intensity comes and goes, and I can even push it back for awhile...but it eventually comes back and hangs over my head like some kind of stalkerish storm cloud.

As I've said before, I'm so used to being balls-to-the-wall crazy that I'm still unfamiliar with the subtler shades of it. I haven't been able to figure out why I've been so tired--aside from being sick with what was most likely walking fucking pneumonia, picked up the day I took ChaosKitty to my doctor back at home, since both of us have it now. I haven't been able to figure out why every task seems daunting, why shit looks so bleak, why I feel like I'm standing at the end of a hallway, looking down a corridor that represents the rest of my life...and every single door on either side of that hallway, every day it represents, looks exactly the fucking same.

I try to tell myself that my whole life won't be like this, but I'm afraid it will be...because it's always been this way.

I understand why people kill themselves. It's because everything looks like it will be exactly the fucking same forever. And do you know what keeps me going? It's not the hope that tomorrow will be better. It's not the belief that something good has to happen to me eventually, after having being kicked in the teeth repeatedly my whole life.

No.

I live off all the anger and hurt and bitterness and resentfulness and pure fucking spite that's inside me. It feeds me and gives me the fuel I need to keep placing one foot in front of the other, even though I know nothing is ever going to change.

I live because I don't want to give any of these sonsofbitches the pleasure of thinking that they were the reason I killed myself.

That's it. That's all. That's the reason I'm still here.




Six years ago today, March 19th, I met the man who ruined my life.

I loved him. I worshipped him. I believed from the bottom of my heart that the man was second only to God himself and that there was something truly human and wonderful inside him.

And what did he do? He betrayed me. In the worst way possible.

He bled me dry and then stabbed me in the back when he was done with me. Two people whom I love more than life itself now think I'm a liar, a manipulator, a histrionic, self-centered, narcissistic bitch because he painted me that way to save his own ass.

The real story will never be known. Why? Because I'm the only one who'll ever tell it, and he thoroughly discredited me before I ever even knew the extent of the game he was playing.

How Machiavellian of him.

I didn't lose one person I loved. I didn't even lose two people I loved. I lost three of them, and nobody--NOBODY, goddammit--knows how I feel.

How I still cry if I have to think about it very long.

How I hate myself for allowing it all to happen.

How I revile myself for my shitty choices.

How I blame myself, though I know I'm far from being the only one to blame.

How I have let the whole experience convince me I'm a shitty fucking person.

How empty I feel inside.

How I feel that I've lost everything and all that remains is a shell of what was.

How much I still love them and would give anything just to see them--all 3 of them--again.




The other morning, when I woke up, I had an email from J. Spammers had hacked her account and started sending out emails. But for a brief moment, my heart caught in my throat, and I hoped for the tiniest second that maybe she had changed her mind about talking to me again.

I should've known better. I don't deserve to hear from her. What the fuck did I expect?

But, still, I wonder. Do they ever think of me?

Probably not.




God, there's so much I wish I could say. But I don't think I even have it in me to say it anymore.

I lost them all and my mind to boot. What more can I say?

I have nothing. NOTHING.

I'm not trying to be dramatic. It is what it is.

I loved. No, I still love. I am the only one who's left sitting in the wreckage. I'm the only one who gives a shit. Maybe I'm the only one who ever did.

And, yes, I'll continue on with my life, but it never stops hurting. Everything I ever loved is gone. And it's not just not coming back--it's veered off onto another path altogether. And I'm the only one who still holds on to it....

Regardless of what happened, regardless of how much I fucked up, regardless of how fucked up the whole goddamn situation was...I still love them. There was so much that I should've done. But I always had the best of intentions, and I never meant to hurt anyone. I'm just a fuck-up, is all.

But God knows I love them. I do. Even if he's the only one who knows.


You are someone else.

I am still...right here.