22, beauty in strange places, anxiety level: high, Lana del Rey, film, t.v., beer and trees, pumpkin patches and hayrides, acting, constant affair with music, 1920s-1950s, being alone, serial killers, books, teeth, medicine, vinyl, driving around, cloudy days, windows down, Neville Longbottom, comfortable clothes, oldies stations on the radio, mermaids, psychology, sociology, The Wizard of Oz
I have no idea how to change my “profile.” I’m no longer 22. I’m 24. That’s the only real change. I love my full grown 2 lb/ 10 oz dog, Oscar. He’s what I live for. Sobriety date: August 20, 2013.
The only friends I have since I got sober tell me “happy birthday” on my Facebook wall. While I was in treatment they wanted my detox number because I was “interesting.” Yes, an opiate- and benzo- laden lady puking and being sedated is so “interesting.”
Happy 8 months of hating life to me. I want to tear my fucking ears off during the NA meeting when everyone tells me how great their lives have become. Mine just became 100 x worse. I hate this. Plus my Tourette’s is now about a billion times worse despite being an eight month guinea pig for meds to treat the problem but no one cares that I’m “ticcing” about 95% of the time and in complete plain but God forbid give a person living in fucking misery a high ass dose of daily injectable lorazepam or some freakin’ phenobarbital. The only things that stop it other than extreme doses of opiates (which I thought was a good idea to stay clean of….): now I’m not so sure.
Should I just say fuck you to eight months of sobriety to relieve the misery of my Tourette’s? Ugh…. I don’t know what to do. Not to mention I’d actually have friends again.
Fatale #1. Ed Brubaker and Sean Phillips.
Biggie Smalls- Party And Bullshit
17,421 playsNEW YORK CITY AND HIP-HOP CULTURE