greet death

“Last week on Thursday I got drunk and thought about my friends
Most of them are so in love and I’m happy for them
I am resentful of the practices of human faith
We fall in love, we fall in love, we hope it’s not too late”

I Hate Everything, Greet Death

Get high, fuck up your room, go to sleep, wake up at 1pm, don’t remember anything, repeat. I don’t really know myself sober anymore. I don’t even know myself high. Everything is blurry and uncertain.

I’m drowning my sorrows, stubborn as an ox and determined to die before I have to face anything.

It’s not healthy, but I feel like it’s the only way to ensure I don’t turn into my father, or the monster you made me feel like I was.

I’m living in fear, I feel like an addict. The other day, I was high, stretching in my desk chair, and I leaned back and busted my ass. I think I fractured my tailbone. I laid there, writhing, edges of my vision searing from pain, and I wanted it to last forever. I just wanted to lie there. I still daydream about it. It just felt good to be really hurting, relishing in my pain, filling my brain, instead of hiding from it.

In my weakest, worst moments, all I want is a light.

I think about Spring 2014, wonder what I was up to then. How do you make light of your life when every fragment is a piece of broken glass? When I was 13, I was cutting myself. 14, starving myself. 15, throwing my lunch up. 16, in the hospital. 17, gorging myself. 18, back in the hospital. 19, college, freedom, right? 20, smoking to death.

Maybe the person I’m most afraid of is not who I am when I’m sober, but who I am when I’m not in love. I was told to start writing things that are more true. This is the truest thing I can think of. I don’t know who I am when I’m not in love, infatuated, changed and charged by pulses of oxytocin. What is the point of life, if not to find someone to love more than you love living? I don’t want to find myself anymore.

“Yesterday I saw a bird out walking on my street
Covered in vomit, broken glass, a corpse on the concrete
I took a picture then moved on to find a place to eat
Ignored a phone call from someone that I just met last week”



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Isabella (she/her) writes literary nonfiction and creative memoir. She is currently an undergraduate English & Creative Writing student in Raleigh, NC.