Is This The Way You Get To Hell?

My kid is rocking out to “Is this the way you get to hell” by stitched up Heart. I am an awesome influence. Hey, the song rocks. I endured the Frozen theme, I have done my time in G rated hell. Bring on the metal.

I want whiskey. Actually, any alcohol I can choke down.
It is the only thing that makes my brain stop spinning.
It sounds like a lame ass excuse to be a drunk and yet…It is my truth. My brain just moves so fast I can’t keep up. I am overwhelmed without any outward triggers. This is all my own mind.
When I was on higher dose Xanax or Focalin, it was a non issue.
I don’t have those now so it is an enormous issue.
My lack of focus comes off as mercurial, selective, flaky.
I hate this shit. I hate the fact I fantasize more about alcohol than romance or even lust. I just want a quiet brain. Since the professionals severed my ability to quiet my brain properly…It leaves legal stuff like booze.
And I can’t afford to pay attention so even that is unobtainable.
I fantasize anyway.

The noise in my head is agonizing.
It hinders the most basic things. It makes me irritable, depressed, hopeless.

Sick Puppies-Poison
“Here’s a pill, why don’t we take it…’cos I heard it makes everything okay.”

Sometimes, it’s not a simple snarkasm. Sometimes, it’s fact.

I am depressed today. I am anxious. My mind is on hyper drive.
I don’t need more stress and yet here I am, taking more on because I…don’t wanna be like the shallow assholes who castigated me for being less than perfect.
I had to reach out to my dad and to R for assistance. It devoured my soul and made me feel like I need a shower.
But then isn’t that my life.
I swallow my pride because I have no other options.
Then spend days loathing myself.
I made a mess of my life and this is the hand I’ve been dealt.
Thank you, cyclothymia and anxiety disorder.
I am not without blame, but you can’t get to the right place if your map is a misprint, so I’m a bit salty that I am expected to get to the right place with a faulty brain.
Of course, it’s an excuse. I get that drummed into my head at every turn.

I want a salt lick of valium and a keg of whiskey.
I want to not want that.
It’s like being in a hell and I just keep asking, “How did I get in this hand basket?”

If a pill stops the torture within my own mind…
I’m good with that.
I can live with judgment as I’ve known little else.
This daily madness where my mind spins so fast I fear my sanity is slipping away…
I’d gargle bleach and lick nine volt batteries if I thought it would make me feel well mentally.

Mental illness.
This IS the way you get to hell.

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