My memories caught up with me. I can evade them for a few days, at best. However, they always find me. Every moment I spend in dread of a thought, a vision, or a phantom voice is spent digging through my memories. They always follow.
I understand why you avoid me. I know why you don't call, and why you shuffle off messenger as soon as I come on. Knowing me is like knowing an asbestos blanket lined with lead. I can extinguish fires, but I lay heavy, and suffocate anyone stupid enough to get too close. This is the way I've always been.
Gaming helps, but it can't be everything to me. At some point, I want a life away from the pewter, plastic, paint, and odd-shaped dice. The trouble seems to me to be that life away from the games shop doesn't want me around. I can struggle with words to say things other ways, but in the end, I'm right, aren't I?
I'm sending out poems to literary magazines and other outlets. It seems like the thing to do: they will know me by my writing, and not by my voice. It should work out just greatly, just as long as they don't hear me speak.
I try to live happily, but they always find me. There's no where for me to hide: I have no refuge from myself in here. When I'm around people, things get better for me; as much as I feel better, I see the rest of you feeling frustrated, exhausted, tired, and short of breath. It's obvious.
Every night, I stare down a lethal dose. It's close now, and I feel the tug. Why do I stay? I stay because I promised a whole bunch of people, most of whom avoid me now, and my mom that I wouldn't go until time takes me. I keep my word.
Before I end this post, and take my medication, let me ask you a question: if you had two minutes to spare, a bottle of Jack Daniels, and a phone right in front of you, would you drink the whiskey or talk to me? It's ok to drink; if I were sane and had those options, I'd probably take the whiskey and be on my way, too.