When you can’t ask your fiance where he hid your remaining xanax because your life may depend on it and I AM LITERALLY the only one who needs me to die.
reblogging yourself as you dissolve into the suicidal mess you once were… or maybe that’s just me
I was M.I.A. today not because I was engrossed in some video game I’ve played 7 times before. I was chemically unconscious. The plan was to take a hefty nap before heading to my brother’s house to borrow their laundry facilities and hang out with a good chunk of my family.
Instead - around 6am - I threw a toddler-level tantrum that ended in me talking a shot from my nearly full bottle of alprazolam on top of the various vodka cranberries I’d been sipping on throughout the night. I immediately thought better of it, considering now half the pills were saliva-coated disasters waiting to happen and spit them back in the bottle. Upon further analysis I decided they’d be inedible goo if I waited, but if I actually took them now there’s the glowing benefit of perhaps not waking up, which is always my ultimate goal. My tolerance has gone way down since last October when I started playing with these pills and alcohol with the distinct endpoint in mind, but considering that never worked, I’m not at all surprised the spur of the moment chucking chemicals down my throat wouldn’t do bollocks-all, no matter now badly I wanted it.
So, In summary, I’ve bailed on plans I had with my brother and his deeply beloved family twice in one week because I couldn’t bare being filled with such destructive rage and conscious at the same time. I feel like an utter shithead for skipping dinner and laundry. Carrie tries so hard to keep me involved, especially when she knows my parents are out of town for a while. My family loves the hell out of me and I can’t even bear to stay conscious long enough to see their lovely faces and I can’t stand myself AT ALL!