03/06/2024
Well, I've achieved the impossible... as far as my life goes. I got almost 2 and a half hours of sleep. That's marathon material in my world, especially these days. When the most powerful benzo in the pharmaceutical world can only grant you that little relief, I know it was only achieved because my sweet baby boy was snuggled up and kissing my face until we fell out, spooning. Onyx is my miracle baby.
I'm looking out the window. It's not even 7 am, and the day is gray, cold, and dreary. Perfect. It fits my new persona of an anxiety-ridden, fighting for his life and sanity man who, in reality, is still the same little lost boy he always was. I am writing my own prescription for the day: another Benzo, toss it back with something equally as numbing, close the curtains, and crawl back into my bed, being kept warm by adoring (and snoring) Frenchie.
I am exhausted. In every way. I know we are all facing it harder than we ever have in this world, but I can't seem to keep up anymore. I am so sick of it... the coldness, the anger, hatred, insanity. The way that the belief to be successful in America now is to claw your way to the very bottom and take pride in your own repugnance. We literally celebrate mediocrity and the most low-brow trash in the world in this country. Doubt me? Watch an episode of Real Housewives. ANY OF THEM.
And then it has been a pretty weird past few months for me. I am finally, at THIS point in my life finding out who I am and where I came from. That's all good... well, my sister Crystal is. She's been a rock in a really rough ocean.
Now, that ocean? That would be me. I remember hearing Carrie Fisher say that people never understood about her that her cup was always overly filled and spilling everywhere, while most people were walking around calmly with half a cup.
I swear... sometimes I think Frances Farmer got off easy. They don't do lobotomies anymore, do they? I'd be tempted to sign up.
I just wish I could stop feeling. Go numb. Into a K hole. A drug-induced coma. A sugar coma. I don't give a s**t. A blackout from alcohol wouldn't last long enough to offer any real relief. (And NO. I have never been in a blackout.) But I do think some pure Molly, a great DJ, and dancing drenched in sweat til past the sunrise would do me a lot of good. But Frenchies can't get into raves.
Life right now is so double-sided, too. Part of it seems to be moving so fast, while all the best bits remind me of being on a film set: hurry up and wait. God, I hated that s**t.
I'm not sure what this rant was all about, nor do I really care now that my Benzo is kicking in.
OK, at least for the next few hours I am not caring, I am not stressing, worrying, feeling nauseated, or like my head is going to explode because I am standing too close to someone with the mentality of a shoe and the personality of a dial tone.
Good night, folks. Or day. Whatever the case may be.
