I sure wish I could please everybody I care about. Pleasing myself just doesn’t seems as relevant anymore. Either change or witness an event that may lead you down a rabbit hole. I feel like my life is being torn apart.
If I could bundle up all my rage and sadness right now, it would grow to be the size of the sun, and we’d all get sucked into it. For the fourth time in my life, I received the “your mom is in the hospital” call today. Her coworkers found her unconscious in bed and the five prescription pill containers alluded to the idea that she had mixed her medications.
Future drug addicts: if you’re going to keep being an addict, don’t have kids. Putting them through that is too much. When you’ve sent your mother to rehab before and then you find out she’d never changed to begin with, it’s heartbreaking.
What do I do wrong as a daughter to make you need to get fucked up? I called 5 times this week and you ignored me. When I think of my father in a coffin at the Vashon Cemetery, he seems just as dead as my mom is now, even though she is alive in her hospital bed. He had so much life in him. My head will spin forever.
She is fine. I just needed somewhere to write this. Facebook can’t handle the truth. People are still occupied with hating their parents or revolting against them. It’s all fun and games until they’re gone.
“The burning of a book is a sad, sad sight, for even though a book is nothing but ink and paper, it feels as if the ideas contained in the book are disappearing as the pages turn to ashes and the cover and binding—which is the term for the stitching and glue that holds the pages together—blacken and curl as the flames do their wicked work. When someone is burning a book, they are showing utter contempt for all of the thinking that produced its ideas, all of the labor that went into its words and sentences, and all of the trouble that befell the author.”—Lemony Snicket, The Penultimate Peril (via aworldofexperiences)