it's not the size of the dog in the fight, it's the size of the fight in the dog.

*I am in no way endorsing dog fights with this title, they're horrible. Just a good quote.

 A week ago, since I posted last. Things just got increasingly worse. Before I get into that, I think there's a background story that needs to be interluded here:
 Me and my boyfriend have been together and madly in love for two years. We live together, we're always together and we're happy. But we fight a lot. We 'break-up' a lot and then everything is fine by the net day. We make up and are back to normal. We love hard, and fight hard. But this time I really screwed up. He just left me and that was that. I don't think we can bounce back from this. Maybe this is the time he never comes back. He really hurt me and broke my heart.  So this is where my week of drug binge and drinking drinking started. That's also the week I cut myself. And the week my Cymbalta or situation made me want to die.

Continuing on, my last post, I was crashing. I slept forever, and woke up feeling horrible. Depressed. Hopeless. Anxious. Shaking. Ryan still didn't want me, my other friend has a new girlfriend, and my best friend doesn't know I'm a drug addict wreck. I have nobody. So I rush to the LCBO, buy this HUGE bottle of vodka, get some more sleeping pills, and whatever else I can get my hands on. And so, my drug and alcohol binge continues, my non eating continues. And despite how heartbroken and sad I am, when I'm fucked up, I don't care. My drugs and whatnot is all I need.

Ryan ended up messaging me, and we talked for a long time. We decided we were going to work on things. Take it slow, do the whole best friend thing until everything's okay. Yet for some reason, as completely happy I am that we have the chance to fix something that should have never been broke, I couldn't stop myself from thinking what about the things that are already broken and always have been broken. Like me, I'm broken, always have been. And my idea of fixing myself, is a fix...of drugs, purging, starving, whatever. So I keep breaking myself more. Will I ever be fixed? Do I even deserve to be fixed? I'm afraid he's going to come back expecting the girl he loved, the one he met, the one who was sober before all this. And what if we try, and he changes his mind, and I have to go through all this heartbreak again. I cannot handle that.

So I spent my nights talking till him until he went to bed, then I'd begin my nighttime drug routine. I kept getting worse, and it wasn't until I drank and drugged myself do death that I realized I'm becoming an alcoholic too. My mom found me, puking my guts up, incoherent, eyes rolling back in my head. When I did finally wake up, I was still drunk. I couldn't remember anything, my whole night was a black hole. I decided I couldn't drink anymore. My mom was furious, pointing out what I never even knew, you aren't supposed to drink while on antidepressants...I'm on two. I felt like shit for a few days recovering from that night.

Things with Ryan are getting much better, I think we're going to be okay. We've been hanging out, getting intimate and I'm so glad. He also helped me realize I've been misjudging weed the whole time. I personally think it's therapeutic. It gets rid of my anxiety, I can relax, it helps me sleep, and I don't even need all the other drugs. I still will have all the other drugs for now, I'm not ready to give them up, but maybe it'll help me slowly get off them. It's a lot better than drinking, sleeping pills, xanax, percs, coke, you name it that I'd do.

I'm not giving up. It seems like I've relapsed again and want to stay an addict. I don't I just need to get my life a bit more in order, build up the strength deep down in me. It's me against a monster, I need to build the fight in me before I can fight something that size. But I will do it. I've gotten clean before on a lot worse, I can do it again. Just give me time.

imagine trying to live without air, now imagine something worse.

it's funny, one moment your on your road to recovery, the next your staring death in the eyes, hoping he wins the stare-down.

have you ever watched blood trickle down your arm? the stinging pain is almost as good as snorting 10 pain killers. i never want to feel again. every time i let myself feel, i end up hurt. fuck, i miss oxys. i miss the mind and body numbing feeling. i miss the rush that lulls you into a sleep. hell, i even miss the pain of withdrawal, creeping up my spine, stealing every ounce of strength and happiness from my soul. i'd do anything for even just one.

it's been a week and a day since he left me. it only took a week for me to fall so low, i think this is what they mean by rock bottom. except, i want to dig six feet deeper. i haven't eaten in days, i don't even know how many. it feels amazing. too bad it's the slowest death i could choose.

but of course, i wanted to feel better. to feel nothing. why did Purdue have to do this to me? to decide that oxys are a problem now, and to replace them with garbage? you couldn't have given me a couple more months? an easy out?

looks like I'm settling for percs again. but snorting them isn't going to do the trick, neither will eating them. god forbid i binge and puke up a perfectly good high. tin foil, a straw, a lighter, and crushed pills. that'll do. it's weird, it's worse than any oxy addiction. once the first hit of chemical smoke hit my lungs, i couldn't stop. it was a constant cycle of crying, drinking, smoking and then snorting sleeping pills to knock me out. i used up 2 lighters, and have burns and blisters all over my thumbs. if i don't have smoke in my lungs, i can't function. i haven't stopped shaking in days. i tell myself it's because i haven't taken a hit in a while, so i do. the shaking doesn't stop.

the thing is, when you've been up high for days, completely out of your mind high, your mind starts to play tricks on you. first, it told me how good the burns feel. how that's all i could feel. then it told me if it was worse, i wouldn't feel a thing. i held them over an open flame. then it told me that wasn't enough. it made me so preoccupied with death for days. i listened to suicide music, fell in love with Kurt Cobain, thought about my empty eyes when i died, and how nobody would care. how i wouldn't hurt anymore.

but how? i didn't know how i could do it, how i could go through with it. so i grabbed the sharpest knife i could find. i just wanted to see how it'd feel. it's the weirdest thing, it hurts so badly that you can't feel it. now i have 8 perfect gashes on my arms.

if i wasn't so fucking high when i did it i would have done it somewhere nobody could see.

i need some help, i have to talk to someone.

ah, to think how thin the veil that lies between the pain of hell and paradise.

For the last couple of weeks I've been up visiting my brother and sister-in law on the army base they lives on. I go up to see them once every summer, this was my third summer. When I say army base, nothing beautiful or serene comes to mind, but this place is absolutely amazing. There's hills, and tons of beaches/water, and so so many huge trees which makes the air seem so fresh. It's like you've never really taken a breath until you get there and fill your lungs. The houses are all owned by the Canadian Forces, but they're cute and cozy. Not too big and not too small. And the best thing of all is the quiet. I don't live in a big city, but it's big enough to be busy and loud. Up there, aside from the random plane here and there, it's refreshing silence.

Or so I thought.

The last two times I've been there I never wanted to leave. When the week was up I was so sad to be heading home. That's why I stayed longer this time. But alot of things have changed since last summer, including the way I felt being up there. Suddenly the silence I used to welcome, seemed too silent. It was like the silence was just so, loud? The clean, normal part of me enjoyed it, took the time to reflect on things, to write, and to just relax and get away from it all. But the addict part in me, the one still screaming for drugs couldn't stand the silence. Without noise and busy-ness, that part of me suddenly seemed louder and more present in my head. Back home I had people to talk to, things to do, and there was always music. It kept my addiction on the side lines to let me stay clean. But up here, I had to stay clean without the help of distraction. I actually had to listen to the addict's begging and pleading for drugs, I had to listen to the pain and anger. I had to listen to all of it, and face all of it. Which left me angry, depressed, and home sick. I couldn't sleep, and I found myself stealing booze the first couple of nights. And as embarrassing it is to addmitt it, I even stole drugs. He had knee surgery before I came up, and had a bunch of percs left over. Each one has 5mg of oxycodone in them, and seeing them all there in the bottle after not seeing anything for so long, after missing it for so long, I just couldn't resist. It wasn't exactly an 80, but it was closer than I'd get to it. I stole one on one of the first few nights, and even just the one made me so high. I couldn't believe it. So I stole another one. I couldn't beleive that I was reacting this way. I didn't know my tolerance could go down so much, so quickly. So thank god they weren't 80's. I read somewhere that most addicts OD when they relapse because they go back to their normal usage amount after losing tolerance. I didn't believe it, because what kind of idiot takes the same amount after going without? I just didn't know it was so drastic. I used to do at least three 80's a day! That's 240mg's, and I was suddenly getting high from less than five. So if they were 80's I would have broken it into 8 pieces (uneven because they're hard to break into more than 4 even pieces). That's still 10mg's per piece, and some would be bigger than others. And I would have pushed it, I probably would have just done a quarter of it, because I thought that's what they meant by my tolerance going down...from 240 to 20, and I'm an addict, I'd want to get as fucked up as possible. But I guess it went down almost completely and that thing I read was completely accurate. I'm just lucky for my health they were percs and nothing more. It's already bad enough morally and emotionally to be relapsing on stolen drugs. How stupid am I?

Anyways, I ended up stealing two more (at the same time). But something kept me from doing them. And I was going to put them back, I really was. But this part of me wouldn't do it, it's like I just needed to have them even if I wasn't doing them. Which backfired because I put them in my purse, and didn't realize until I got to the airport, that I'd have to smuggle narcotics through airport security. I honestly considered doing it, and I would have gotten away with it. But I chickened out, the rational, thinking clearly part of me decided it was fucking stupid to risk for two pills. But the other part of me wasn't going to let them go to waste. So I took them (ate them), both of them at the same time before going through security. Keep in mind I usually snort these things, so snorting one in one night means I'm doing less than the 5mgs at once, which since that takes longer, and I could still get high with such a low tolerance, it was more efficient. Horrible for my nose with all the acetaminophen, but whatever, it felt kind of nice. So anyways, I took two whole pills orally, getting 10mgs of it at once. It felt great I won't lie, but it was borderline that uncomfortable too high feeling. Especially when babies started crying, or annoying passengers beside me asked stupid questions. I just wanted to put my head back and enjoy it, since it won't be happening anytime soon. But obviously in some odd way it was like I was being punished for being such a weak, horrible person.

Don't get me wrong, I loved being up there. I loved seeing my brother and getting away from everything back home. And as hard as it was, I guess it was probably good to finally deal with some of it, rather than just keeping it aside where the cravings just grow stronger and stronger. And the stronger they grow, the harder it will be to say no if some thing's in front of me. Which is exactly what I let happen. I ignored it, pushed it down and as soon as drugs were within my reach and I was feeling low, I caved. I caught myself though, and that's why I didn't touch the other two while I was there. But I still stole them and I knew that having them would eventually result in taking them. And it ended up biting me in the ass anyways. And I felt like such a bitch for caving, relapsing, stealing from my brother, and not fully enjoying a trip that should have been paradise. I let me addiction turn it into hell instead.

But don't worry, it was only a minor relapse. I'm back on track. I messed up, but I learned from my mistake. And I'm once again sober. Hopefully for good this time.

And the other moral of the story is, don't do drugs before going on an airplane, hahaha.