Empty

I feel depressed. Really fucking sad. I know why. This is the real me. The me without anti-depressants. My script has run out and I'm too broke to get more. It's been four days and my nerves are exposed. Somehow I can afford heroin though, and that makes me even more depressed. With Paxil, I feel fine. I don't think about how no one I know has ever quit heroin. I don't think about how much I miss my family and how alone I am. But mostly, I don't think about how my best friend is dead and I can't remember our last conversation because I was too blurred out from drugs.

I've been sick since yesterday. Mascara dripping down my cheeks. Delicate movements. Nauseous. Vomiting in the trash can under my desk. Lying on my side in bed, avoiding the TV because the lights make it worse. I wonder how long it will last this time? It comes every month or so, for a few days. Life feels sickly lurid, too warm, too cold. A strange fucked up dream. I've never even been addicted to ciggys. I wasn't abused, I've always been good. I've only been addicted for a year. But it crept up slowly. Burrowing under my skin. Into my blood. I feel like I'm standing at the bottom of a huge mountain. I can't even see the top. I want to turn around and run. I want to give up and die.