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[ahotpotofcoffee]

This isn’t life

This isn’t life. It’s warm and smells of melted plastic, because I can’t afford the electric bill and I had to use a space heater an old roommate left behind in 2014. I have nearly maxxed out credit cards, not to mention tens of thousands of dollars of student debt, but I spent thirty dollars on delivery today because I haven’t cleaned my kitchen since september. There is a brken ceramic vase on the floor that I cut my foot on two days ago because I never cleaned it up after I came in drunk and fell into my shelf, causing it to fall and smash. I think the cut might be infected, but I don’t have health insurance to go and get it checked. I have panic attacks about my foot falling off, but I don’t have health insurance to cover therapy or medications. There’s mold everywhere and every night I go to bed saying I’m going to clean it tommorow and here I am in bed once again sleeping in a moldy, dirty apartment that no one ever comes to visit. Sometimes I sit in my car when I get home instead of coming inside, because it’s warm and there’s a cover over the mess in the back so I can’t see it, but my car still stresses out because I paid 6000 for it by paypaling my credit card.

I’m laying on a dirty bed right now, withouh sheets because in a single moment of energy two weeks ago, I tore them off my bed to take to the laundry. The pizza and pasta are a few feet away leaving a grease stain on the pillow top that I got from a different roomate that moved out of the saint johns house. I have a miderm essay due tomorrow, as well as one that I wasa supposed to turn in almost a month ago that I still haven’t even started. I tried to register for classes because it’s been nearly ten years since I graduated high school and I still don’t have a bachelors degree, but I am on academic probation at PCC and have an outstanding bill of nearly 4000 at PSU because I’ve lost my financial aid so many times. The kicker is, I don’t even really care about any of this. I sit here typing and stressing about tomorrow, when I really don’t even fucking care about this degree. I have no idea what I will do with a pscyhology degree, let alone one that I am 30 grand in debt for, because nothing brings me joy anymore. I am not happy, I never leave my apartment except for work or to consume food, and I am fatter than I could ever have imagined being. I am obese. I breathe heavily and have to catch my breath after getting up from my sofa chair. I never feel like I connect to anyone, and now I can’t even try because I feel so uncomfortable in my own body. My arms feel as heavy as hams, and my belly is so large is flows over itself. What little of me there might have been is unrecognizable in the mirror and the few instances it’s caught on camera. 

This isn’t life. Living this way, this isn’t life; it’s staying alive. Years ago, when Sheyn committed suicide, I made the choice to stay alive, and I guess I have, often begrudgingly. But if I’m being honest with myself, that’s all ive really done. I don’t enjoy this, I’m not happy. I feel so much more lost than I ever did back then. This world wasn’t built for me to succeed, and I don’t know how to find the passion it takes to actually live a life. I feel like I need to have joy to get the energy to build a joyful life, but that’s just like a shoddy chicken or the egg argument. I don’t know what to do. Six months ago I turned 27, and spent the whole time googling the 27 club. I promised myself that I just needed to make it one more year and if I still wasn’t happy, I could do it. But honestly, I don’t think I could do it. I think of my mom and my dad and despite not feeling like they love me, I know that I just feel that about everyone and they really do love me in their own selfish ways. I don’t know. I feel like I don’t know anything anymore. I hate talking these days and try to avoid saying anything because I never feel good, I never have anything to say except I’m sad, I’m bored, I can’t believe I stayed alive for this.

[ahotpotofcoffee]

Depression recovery is figuring out what it means to live

And figuring out what it means to live when you still want to die.

I’m not sad.

I’m not happy.

I just exist.

What does that even mean?

What meaning does your life have without depression?

I’m so fucking bored

[ahotpotofcoffee]

My eyes slid past the over eager bartender trying to make eye contact with a hazy focus on a bowl of oranges on the counter. My last text to you was on Friday, today is Monday, but you still hadn’t texted back. I hadn’t texted anything particularly extraordinary, a bubbler I just bought after I checked my texts, but that’s what we used to share; weed. My eyes go back to an unfocused glaze on the oranges; I try to pinpoint when I needed to be updated on your life. I used to be a part of your life, in the thick of it, in the forest, in your forest, until maybe lasts spring.

[ahotpotofcoffee]

She doesn't work the same for souls

Adam

[ahotpotofcoffee]

I don’t like the way my name sounds coming out of your lips. 

I hate it when you call me.

You, who are so sweet and kind.

I feel like a new person around you. 

But when my name tumbles carefree and welcoming from your lips,

All I can hear is the past few years 

Of others saying it viciously.

When you say my mane, I hear him using it inter

[ahotpotofcoffee]

Have you ever spent your life waiting to die?

[ahotpotofcoffee]

This year has crushed me. In every possible way, at every turn imaginable, I have been hurt and wounded and slowly, steadily, meticulously beat down.

The only reason I’ve felt so awake or clear headed this year is because I’ve literally been in a fight or flight state of mind since like January.

Is it Keaton? Is this all to blame on Keaton? Cause That seems irrational.

I think he was one of the first triggers that set me into this state this year. And I don’t think I ever fully processed Alaska, or the trauma in Costa Rica, and that just keeps bleeding into these panic attacks. 

I don’t know exactly what’s wrong with me, but it seems to be panic related. Paul was the straw that broke the camels back and sent me into this most recent and more massive one. 

For the love of everything that is good, I hope I can remember how to be happy again. But I’m so fucking scared. And honestly..... I miss you so fucking much.

They way we held hands and cuddled to gether when it was way too hot out to do either. The amount of shows we watched while drinking boozy floats and kissing.

I don’t know how things owuld have been different if I hadn’t gone to alaksa, maybe that dream of a summer fling could have stayed around until christmas.

But I can’t be afraid anymore.

I can’t be afraid to travel aand love and explore and climb mountain s and do things to writ books about. ICan’t forget what it really means to live a life. I have to climb those mountains and go to those citesa nd don’t let them be anything less thna my dreams.

[ahotpotofcoffee]

I guess for me the thing that did it was that I eventually got so fucking fed up with where I was at, with who I was, that I had to change something. Ans even when those changes didn’t always stick or weren’t easy, the time of relapses kept getting shorter and shorter. It’s like I was a pendulum swinging drunkenly back and forth across a line, but with each step I straightened out a little more and got a little closer to who I really wanted to be.

[ahotpotofcoffee]

I can’t remember the last time I wanted to cut this bad. Nursing a beer and a minor drug dependency, I wished I was drunk enough or stoned enough to jsutify the red mark on my abnormally pale wrist. I wished I could be dull enough to let the knife tear apart the skin that you once kissed, reliveing it of the urge to be beautiful and let me become as ugly as you told me I was. I kept taking bigger and longer pulls from my beer, the ciggarette, the joint, a stranger’s dick, hoping to be as ugly and as broken as you made me feel, but nothing seemed to come close to the way your fingers felt around my throat.

[ahotpotofcoffee]

How do I let go of you?

There’s no sure-fire way. There’s no recipe for escaping disaster, no infomercial to sell you a five step plan to get results (of happiness) fast.

I can smoke all I want and do yoga and water plants, or I can eat junk food and get way too hi and write about remembering you; But I can’t figure out how to forget you.

I can’t figure out how to forget the way you loved me.  

[ahotpotofcoffee]

[ahotpotofcoffee]

I was happy three times in the past 15 or so hours, although a solid 8 of those included sleep. I'm unused to writing about the word happy, except

[ahotpotofcoffee]

I miss rainy days with you I miss days spent aimlessly curled in bed curled around each other whispering to each other  as lovers our love sprinkled through a field I haven’t seen you in just about a week Knowing your birthday is tomorrow  Makes my stomach feel weak

[ahotpotofcoffee]

<p>I see something different for myself<br> A picture without you in it. <br> Maybe still the same cities<br> But with unfamiliar faces,<br> Without your douchey smile.

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[ahotpotofcoffee]

You're somewhere between A note And A fragmented sentence that sounds like your smile Doll I can get high as a kite And all I think are thoughts about you You're not from that world you Belong up here with me Look at these silly stars shining for our love Aren't they fucking ridiculous?

[ahotpotofcoffee]

How can I stop screaming I love you When you're all I love? How do I get your shiver out of my spine?

[ahotpotofcoffee]

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