365 days since I received that dreaded phone call.
8,760 hours- without you here.
8: how many bones we broke in total , 7: our record for Land Before Time movies in a weekend, 6: the amount of cars you totaled , 0: the number of times I will talk to you again.
I've been sitting on the couch for 134 minutes.
It feels as if I'm sitting in the back of an Uber with that driver who keeps making wrong turns, and has thee absolute worst taste in music. Sitting, endlessly.
Afraid that if I move, my chest will fall out.
Afraid that I might go buy a dr[u]ink.
I hate this disease.
I can still feel Denny shaking in my arms, sobbing at your funeral. Swearing that it was going to be different for him.
Now he is gone too.
This truly has been a year marked by loss. If someone last year were to tell me in the next year, you will lose your grandfather who raised you, your baby brother, and then another brother.. I imagine I would have died right then. I most definitely would have relapsed.
I'm 102 days sober.
I argue daily with my brain: I get to drink; I'm allowed to get high:: {Because life is difficult and painful} {{Because I'm here and-- you're not.}}
Today I miss you more than alcohol and drugs.
But not always.
Lately, it's been difficult to stay sober more than a few months. I just want to take something to dull the pain, to fill this empty pit inside me.
Most days I'm on standby, and everyone around me is moving so fast. I want to scream at everyone and tell them to fucking stop, slow down.
I want them to open their eyes, to know what I know.
The problem is I don't know anything.
Except that: you're never going to be here again, and that really fucking sucks.
Except that: you're never going to be here again, and that really fucking sucks.
