Trying not to think

In everyday life I wrap lies around me, thick bubble wrapped lies, I paste on flawless masks, I stomp the secrets deep. I have to, to survive. It used to feel so free, to wipe away the bullshit, and let my heart peep out, here, anonymously. But recently, when I've sat down to write here, it's been hard. I feel like I'm drifting away. It's getting harder to be truthful. I pick and choose the information, afraid of your reactions. I know that none of you (except for Michael- once, for 20 fast minutes) have met me in 'real life'- but I've been writing on this site for six months at least. So now, after all my uncensored burble, you, the people reading this regularly, know me better than anyone else. I know you want me to be clean, some of you care a lot, more than you should. I feel bad for pulling you in so close.

I hate writing about drugs now. I feel your frowns. Or maybe it's just my own, glaring back at me, stamped on your imaginary faces. I know I'm letting myself down, but it's so much easier when it's just me. It makes no sense why I can't cut the cord, let go of the weight that locks me into living the same situation, over and over. I don't know why I can't do it. I feel embarrassed. I talk about quitting and seem to want it. And at that moment I'm certain, so absolutely, fucking sure that the last time I withdrew the needle, eyes closed, heart buzzing with softness, sunshine racing through my veins, was the very last. Sure in myself, full of commonsense until that second. Like a switch, or dial turned high, in the mid-afternoon. One glancing thought. Half a thought. Then the phone number starts repeating in my head, louder and louder. And my heart starts beating, high and fast, like you could see it, through my shirt. It fills up my ears, I can't write, or think, meetings I'm just partly there, trying not to, feeding myself reasons like snacks, as if they can fill up my hunger.

Finally I think fuck it. Tomorrow. I'll be stronger tomorrow. And my finger is dialing even while my mind is shouting no Tui, what are the fuck are you doing? stop, stop it goddam it. It's like my finger doesn't even belong to me, my feet walk to meet him, with an unusually decisive stride, get out of my way motherfuckers, withdrawing cash, it's like I'm trapped inside a robot's body. I'm just a whisper, a silent scream. Powerless to change what has been set in motion. And to drown out the scream, I think well it's only shitty because of the money. People have done this for centuries, and in some cultures it's acceptable. It's better than gambling, and that's legal. I don't agree with lots of laws, opiates aren't bad for my body, they don't affect my work, they make me more creative. They're like an anti-depressant, to stop me thinking about ways to kill myself. They stop me seeing the world the way it really is, they kiss away the tears, hold me in the tightest hug, soften the corners, stir in a sugar cube, melt the cold, gloss the cruelty and stupidity and violence of humanity. It's just the cost, I tell myself. I wouldn't be concerned with quitting if it wasn't for my hiked tolerance. 'Just the cost' is bigger than it sounds. It may not be the best reason, but it's big, and dark and lonely.

Someday, I want freedom. A daughter who looks like me. Someone to love like my mother loved me. I want to work on my own ideas and art, live in a house on a cliff by the sea, hear the waves crashing against it. I don't want to feel sick when I think of money, and angry. I work hard, I could be well off, paying a mortgage, driving a nice car, holidaying in fucked up, crazy places, wouldn't that be more inspiring? And then I think, but that is just like everyone else. I will be swallowed up, disappear. I will count on my death to stand apart, hope for something horrific and shocking, something that can be made into a tv movie, with that girl from Melrose Place to play me. And then at least she will remember me, if only for bad reviews and the death of her career.

Fuck the picket fence. I'm used to people thinking I'm strange, I've always been a triangle in a square world. Yes, every child thinks they will be a godlike figure to change the world. Magic from their fingertips, name whispered through generations, carved in stone. Everybody believes they're 20% better looking than they are. Everyone feels so fucking special that they can't give up, if it's not them it will be their children. Their children suck, so then it will be the grandchild. Desperate to make a difference, feel like it was all worth something. To not be just another blip of cells and flesh. Just in case there isn't a heaven, or reincarnation. Just in case we just disintegrate into the earth, chewed by worms, absorbed into trees. A memory shaded into a blossom, or baked into an apple pie. Sometimes I think a ghost is simply another word for an unusual echo, a strong moment, the future or the past, etched through time, a kind of photo, a reverb. Who would really want to stay as a spirit watching the living? Not able to participate, just linger. Like me at a meeting spoken all in French, requested to be there, but bored out of my brain, watching the second hand transforming my future into past.

So many unknown questions. I really wish blind faith was enough for me. Life would be so simple, unworrying, quite jolly in fact. Someone dies, well, see you later, in an eternal vacation without bugs or sunburn or lost luggage. Sounds dreamy. Definately worth donating 10% (or is it 15%) of your salary to a church for. Cheaper than an old folk's home. But then... who knows? Like you I can feel a warm part in my soul which feels connected to something. I believe in being kind and good and respecting the people I love, trying not to hurt them, be there for them. Be a positive influence on the world. Pass on happiness, help a stranger and they will help someone too. That's logical. I want to believe something big is out there, looking over me, an invisible hand in mine. I want to believe that if I pray I can avoid ever being raped or abused- never experience that dreaded c-word, so common on the doctors' chart. I want it all, every religion, all the myths aand fantastical, beautiful promises, to be true.

But if a god is there, smiling down, why do bad things happen to good people? Over and over. And why are there people who take pleasure in another person's pain? They call themselves religious but delight in hate. Hating gays, other religions, prostitutes, drug users, me. If I could believe in a god, I couldn't believe he'd take sides, I can't believe he'd hate.

The only person I soften my opinion for is my granny. I can't tell her I don't believe in heaven. She's about to step over, somewhere. I know she's scared. She thinks about it a lot. She turns to the obituarys first, when the paper is delivered. Reads another friend's name aloud. I try to believe that my best friend, and others who've died in the past 2 years are at peace somewhere fabulous. But one thing, like an itch just out of reach, niggles me again and again. Why us? Why humans? What makes us better or different than any other living thing? If anything, we're worse, cruel, greedy, arrogant. Arrogant enough to think we'll live forever.

Disagree with me. I want to be convinced.