I Tattooed My Brain All The Way…

I should be gone.

I should have stayed gone.

It was my intention that life would be such that I would not have to return here.

But that’s shit.

The illusions I have about being in control of my life are pathetic.

I’m nearly forty years old. And I still have the same problems I had when I was sixteen. This isn’t shit I’m going to grow out of. It’s too late for that. If we can agree on nothing else, let’s agree that I’m as grown up as I’m going to get.

And I’m failure.

Oh yes, I have a good job, I’ve made a career for myself. That’s something.

But it’s not enough.

I’ve raised one kid and I’m raising another.

The first one doesn’t speak to me.

And the second is far away from me.

I’ve married. Divorced.

I’ve fallen in love. That happened since the divorce.

But it’s all for not.

If there is one thing I can’t live with, it’s being alone. Which is a tragedy, since it appears to be my nature to push people away.

Luckily, no one reads this shit. If they did, they would no doubt believe I was sitting here feeling sorry for myself. I’m not.

I’m sitting here in, the early hours of the morning, looking at myself. The wine has worn off. But the anger, the hurt, the self loathing still remain.

Just between us, the white space I fill with meaningless words and me, I wish I were dead. I wish it a lot.

But that too will not happen. I can’t take my own life. I’m not that selfish. It would destroy too many other lives.

So I have to continue. Breathing, but not living.

I wrap myself up in others. My own existence is meaningless. I see their hopes and dreams, and make them my own. I work to help them accomplish something, to feel their satisfaction with success. Because I have none of my own. Satisfaction that is. I seem incapable of finding joy in my own success.

But I’m renting. It’s not my life, my joy, my joys and sorrows.

It belongs to them. And when, and invariably there is a limit to how long I can share that… when it is over, I’m left alone.

Naked. Watching the sun come up on a day that I can’t imagine how I will live through.

You’re an excellent writer…

I’m a fraud.
If I were any good I wouldn’t be here. Hiding on the Internet. Hiding my name and my face. I’m no writer. I’m a con artist. I show you a little something, a bit of sparkle. You may think you’ve seen gold, but trust me. There was nothing there.

Your stories touch people…

Do they? I don’t know that they do. Do you really think I’m trying to touch people? Do you think my goals are so lofty? They are not. They cannot be. I’m a drunk.

But you quit drinking years ago…

And you would think that would make the difference. I thought so too. But look at me. Really look. Don’t be fooled by all the flashy distractions. I’m a drunk. I need.

I need to be told that I’m great. I need to be told that I not just a pathetic shell of man, going through the motions. No substance, barely any style. I need so much. I used to look in a bottle. As many bottles as it took. Now where do I look? Now where are the answers. Now how will I face the world. I may be sober, but I’ve lost best friend.

You have lots of friends people care about you…

How could you understand? How can you stand there and think that you know about my friends? They pale in comparison to the friend I walked away from. We had been through so much. Through hell. He never left me, not for a second. When all else was gone, I knew I could turn to him. My priest. My demon. You lifted me up. You kicked me when I was down. You were a liar. You led me down the wrong path so many times. But you never abandoned me. You were there when every one else turned away. When everyone else was unable to watch me destroy everything around me. You were there. And to a drunk, that matters more. Just be there. No matter what. No matter what I do or say. But he was poison. Sure death. So I walked away.

It was good to walk away…

Was it? The problems still remain. The needs. The doubts. The fears. The Darkness. They remain. How can I face them with out my friend. Without my bottle.

I’m damned. There is no answer for this.

If I drink I will die.

When I don’t, I’m not alive.

A shell. A fake. A fraud.

So I sell my goods.

Look at me, I’m a writer.
Look at me, I have something to say.
Look at me, I matter.

Maybe if enough of you look, I’ll feel alive again.

Did you see that… it’s a sparkle. Maybe it’s gold.

look at me please just look just for a moment…

but never trust a drunk.