It's difficult to recall, but I originally started this blog to discuss with myself just one thing. Addiction. The isolation it glamorizes. The threat of recovery. Or at least self-preservation. How it impacts my efforts to destroy myself.
Exaggeration? Not really.
I thought I knew what I wanted. To suffer. and then recover. To become intimate with addiction. So intimate in fact that it wouldn't want me anymore.
But the truth is, the uglier I get the closer we become. The fact is, I written every word the skeleton has shed. And still it's not naked.
Not even close.
In fact, I've lied the entire time. About experiences. About moments that only happened because I created the fiction. What's real is nothing to write about. Nothing that can do any words justice.
What's real is I've overcome nothing. And still ask the same questions I pretended to answer a long time ago.
Truth is like a zipper. You pull it down. Open the teeth. See what's behind the fabric. And you close it knowing you will get bitten.
I used to think all I needed was to be wounded. Then I could heal. I tried writing. All my life I've been writing. When I should've been saying.
Goodbye.
I wish I had a better reason. But right now, weakness will suffice.
