iamdrowninghelpme98

[iamdrowninghelpme98]

Entry 41:

2025

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

June

It’s been a little over two weeks of being clean. I wish I could say that it’s getting easier, but honestly, withdrawal has been hell. Most days, I’ve been curled up in bed or hunched over the toilet, my body betraying me in waves of nausea and exhaustion. The cold sweats hit hardest when the cravings surge- those moments when I can almost taste the pills, when my mind tries to convince me that just one more would make the pain stop. But I know where that path goes. I’ve been down it too many times. This time, I’m choosing something different.

I had to call out of work and ended up going to the hospital one night. I think my body was just done- starved, dehydrated, and depleted. They gave me medicine to ease the nausea and hooked me up to a liquid IV. It sounds small, but I felt like I came back to life for a little while. It reminded me that I deserve to feel okay again. That my body deserves gentleness, not punishment.

I’ve also started going to a Suboxone clinic. I passed my last evaluation, which means I’m cleared to continue taking the medication with weekly check-ins. The medication helps, but the clinic has their own required sessions on top of the Monday meetings I already attend regularly. I haven’t made it to one of theirs yet. It’s not that I don’t want to- it’s just that every ounce of energy I have is going toward surviving the moment I’m in. Sometimes even getting out of bed feels like a mountain. That said, the Monday meetings have honestly been such a surprising bright spot. I’ve really come to love them. Who would’ve thought I’d end up in an LGBTQ+ recovery group? That was definitely an unexpected twist- I wasn’t told that when I first signed up for a group that met on the night I was looking for. But they’ve been absolutely wonderful.

I remember after my first meeting, I awkwardly mentioned during my exit that I might be in the wrong place- “I’m straight?” I laughed nervously. And one of the group members just looked at me and said, “Are you here because you’re trying to get sober?” I said yes. He smiled and said, “Then you’re in the right spot.” That moment has stuck with me. Since then, I’ve felt completely comfortable there. The shares are getting easier, and I actually look forward to going now. The therapist who runs the group is the lady I really like- she asks deep, challenging questions and gets us to reflect in ways I never would’ve reached on my own. Each week there’s a new topic we focus on, and I really appreciate that structure. It gives me something solid to hold onto in a time when everything else still feels so shaky. When you’re this lost, a little direction can make all the difference.

Work has allowed me to use sick time, that’s been a blessing, but I’m running very low on what’s left of it- I’m so fortunate to have a job that been so understanding with all the craziness in my life, I really really don’t want to use up all my good graces with them and blow it. I need to find the strength to go back to work regularly, not just a few shifts a week. Having performed as a top seller last year has definitely given me stronger job security, but I worry that I could be let go at any minute, perhaps it’s just my anxiety, but I can’t help but worry missing so much work will become a bigger problem. If I loose this job, I don’t know what I would do. I can’t go back to my night job, being in the club is dooming any progress I’ve made in my sobriety, and really just dooming my overall healing process.

I need to be strong.

But I’m not alone this time. That’s the difference. My roommates have been amazing. Every time I’m burning up or too weak to move, they’re right there with cold rags and words of comfort, doing everything they can to make me just a little more comfortable. I didn’t ask for angels, but somehow, they appeared anyway.

And my adopted dad- he’s been incredible. Constantly cheering me on, reminding me that he’s proud of me, telling me he loves me no matter what. He’s even been tracking my sober days. That kind of support? It matters more than I can say. For so long, I carried this shame like it was stitched into my skin. But this time, I don’t feel like I’m walking through the fire alone. We’ve been hanging out a lot recently, going to lunch and taking walks. It’s been amazing, I look forward to every one of them, and I hope we can continue to hang out this regularly for a long time. I really do.

I survived Mother’s Day this year- and that’s something I didn’t think I’d be able to say. That day has been a weight on my chest for weeks leading up to it. Last year, I planned on ending my life that day. I was so dirt poor, I stole a couple of avocados from the grocery store and told myself it was okay- it was my “last meal,” I called it. I was convinced that would be my final day. I just wanted one last moment of happiness, and I found it in something as small as an avocado. I sat alone on a park bench for hours, crying, waiting for the sun to go down. I had the shot ready in my bag- a dose far more than I’d ever taken before. I knew it would be enough to make me sleep and never wake up. That day I didn’t talk to my mom. I didn’t talk to my adopted mom. They didn’t call me. And I didn’t call them. All I could think about was Everly. I just wanted to be with her.

I felt so alone, like the world had shut me out entirely. I didn’t know who to call, but somehow I called R. He picked up right away and heard the panic in my voice. He stayed on the phone with me the entire time, and then drove almost nine hours from out of state to find me on that bench. We ended up getting back together for a few months after that, but like always, it ended painfully.

This year, I was determined to be stronger. I knew I needed to survive this one without him. I had already had dinner with him when he came to town, but I didn’t do anything I would regret later- didn’t stay the night, just had conversations, and gained a little peace of mind seeing him doing okay. I can’t help that I still care about him, but it does help ease my worries about him so I can focus on myself. So when mothers day rolled around I made a plan to make it a good day. I sent flowers to both my mom and my adopted mom. I even went back to that same park- but this time, I walked with intention. I reflected on the good, the progress I’ve made, the love I’ve started to let in again. It was on that walk that I decided it was time to start making a real plan to get clean. I’d been cutting back for months, trying to taper. But something inside me clicked that day-it was finally time to stop for good, and it was time to do it that week.

Sending those flowers was scary. I didn’t know if it would be received as a kind gesture or an awkward one. But I’m glad I sent them. It opened the door to a few brief conversations with my adopted mom. It felt good, even if small. She even got me a birthday gift this year, she wouldn’t do that if she didn’t care, right? I’m not sure what’s going on with her son, it sounds like him being so far away has created a distance between them, and maybe something more is going on. That makes me sad, because I know how much she truly loves him. She’s a good mom, and I hope she knows that, I spent last Mother’s Day sad, and I didn’t want her to have to go through that. I wish I knew how to communicate with her. Because maybe she doesn’t hate me the way I’ve convinced myself she does. My adopted dad tells me all the time that she doesn’t, but I’ve always worried he might just be trying to protect me from a harder truth. But maybe… maybe I’ve been wrong. Maybe it’s not hate. Maybe it’s distance, or self-protection, or simply not knowing what to say. And maybe that doesn’t mean I’m unlovable. I think it’s possible to not be ready to let someone in again and still care for them. Maybe that’s closer to how she feels about me.

There’s been a lot of good things to reflect on, but there are still so many moments where the sadness swallows me whole. I think of Everly, of the life I wanted to give her. I talk to her sometimes, especially when it gets really hard. I remind myself that the pain I’m pushing through now is a fight for both of us- for the version of me she would have been proud of.

The physical withdrawal symptoms are slowly loosening their grip. The mental ones are trickier. The memories, the shame, the guilt, the loneliness that still creeps in during quiet moments- I carry all of that. But I also carry hope. For the first time in a long time, I feel like there’s a real shot at healing. Not just staying clean, but truly healing.

This time, I’m not just surviving. I’m rebuilding.

[iamdrowninghelpme98]

Entry 40:

2025

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

May

When I was in therapy this last time, with the woman I really liked, we spent a lot of time deconstructing events and memories- some bright, some brutal- that I believe are the building blocks of who I am today. Together, we peeled back the layers. Even the joyful memories had meanings tucked within them, and the painful ones held truths I had buried to survive. I’ve always felt that writing was my own way of doing what we did in that room- slowly pulling apart the pieces, examining them, and maybe learning how to carry them differently. I think it’s time to start doing that more often, especially with the stories I still can’t say out loud.

In therapy, we touched so many of the big ones. The scariest ones. The ones that linger like smoke. We even talked about what happened in Vegas. But I was never ready to talk about my high school assault. That story - that night - still feels like a stone I’ve been carrying in my gut for over a decade. I’ve given that memory too much credit, too much power. I’ve allowed it to define the chapters that followed. But I don’t want to live in its shadow anymore. I don’t want to keep letting that man -that moment - shape how I see myself. I need to rewrite what that memory means, and what I allow it to take from me.

For so long I thought of that assault as the turning point of my life. Like a thread that, once pulled, unraveled everything. If I hadn’t been raped in that parking garage, I wouldn’t have been put on anti-anxiety medication. If I hadn’t been put on those pills, I wouldn’t have gone looking for more when the refills stopped. If I hadn’t gone looking for more, I never would have met R. If I hadn’t met R, I never would have started using harder drugs. And if I hadn’t started using, I probably wouldn’t have moved out at sixteen. The butterfly effect in motion- all of it spiraling from one night, one man, one moment that I never asked for. That’s the story I’ve believed. That’s the story I’ve told myself.

But maybe I need a new story.

I confronted him this year. The man who did that to me. I faced him- looked him in the eyes. I did what people say you’re supposed to do when you want closure. But I didn’t feel peace. I didn’t feel relief. Because that peace can’t come from him. He doesn’t hold that power. I do. Only I can give myself permission to let go. Only I can decide that I’m done carrying this. I can’t undo what happened. I can’t fix what it broke. But I can heal. And healing is mine. It’s not something anyone can give or take from me. It belongs to me now.

In therapy, they say you start by retelling the story. So here’s mine. Not to relive it, but to finally let some of it go.

I remember the night as clearly as if it happened yesterday, even though it’s been over ten years. I was a teenager, and it was December 23rd. Freezing cold. My family had been invited to a huge engagement party thrown by a well known family in our city, the kind of event with name tags, ballroom lighting, and people in tuxedos who knew how to network over champagne. I was wearing a new purple dress and a pair of heels I could barely walk in. I remember feeling pretty but uncomfortable, like I was playing dress-up in someone else’s world.

That’s where I saw him for the first time. He was there with his wife and kids. I didn’t pay him any attention until he approached me near the bar area. “Why does everyone have a drink in their hand but you?” he asked, smiling. I laughed awkwardly, and said something about not being 21. He joked, “So you’re really just looking for the cool adult who will buy you a drink, then?” Before I could even process how creepy that sounded, he was gone- and back again within minutes with a martini.

I remember how close he got when he handed it to me. “Our little secret,” he said, and walked away. It didn’t feel right. But I drank it anyway, trying to fit in, to escape the boredom of the party- to feel a little older, a little braver. He came back with another drink not long after. This time he hugged me and rubbed my back as he was covertly slipping me the drink. He smelled like whiskey. I drank that one fast too.

Two martinis was more than enough to get me wasted at that age. I felt sick. I just wanted to find my mom and leave. When I did, she was furious. Embarrassed. She told me to go sit down and not speak to anyone. I felt humiliated, like a little girl being scolded in front of strangers. I just wanted to disappear. I slipped out of the ballroom and into the hotel, thinking I’d wait in the car, not realizing it had been valeted and I had no way of finding it.

That’s when I saw him again.

He stepped off the elevator just as I was realizing I couldn’t get to the car. I remember him asking if I wanted to get a room. I remember telling him no and walking away, thinking he’d return to the party. I stepped outside- it was bitter cold, black sky, empty streets- and I walked toward the nearby parking garage.

I remember wandering the garage levels, trying to find our car. I didn’t have keys. I didn’t know where I was going. I reached the roof and realized I had to go back. That’s when everything changed.

I didn’t hear him behind me. I didn’t know he’d followed me. I just saw a shadow on the ground- then I was grabbed. Pulled between two parked cars. I recognized him as the man who had been buying me drinks. I felt his hand over my mouth. He told me not to scream. I tried to break out of his grasp, I couldn’t.

I was just a kid. A scared little girl.

While he raped me, he kept saying, “I love you.” Over and over and over again. A hundred times. Maybe more. It was disgusting. I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. He was choking me most of the time, and I was frozen in fear. That phrase- I love you - became poison. He corrupted it. He stole it. For years, I couldn’t hear those words without hearing him. That’s what monsters do-they take what’s supposed to be beautiful and twist it until it breaks.

And yet, here I am.

Still writing. Still breathing. Still trying.

I don’t want this memory to make my hands shake anymore. I don’t want it to live in my chest like a ghost every time I close my eyes. This is the power I want to take back. This is the power I am taking back.

I can’t erase what happened on that parking garage roof. But I can reclaim the ground I walk on now. I can learn to say I love you again and mean it without flinching. I can find peace- not because the man who hurt me gave it to me, but because I am choosing to give it to myself.

Healing is not easy. But it is mine.

And I’m not done yet.

Writing these things down isn’t easy. My heart is still beating hard, my hands are still a little shaky- but I’m proud I did it. I haven’t said these words out loud in years. I haven’t written them down in even longer. I think a part of me believed that if I didn’t speak about it, I could distance myself from it. But silence never brought me peace. It only made me feel more alone.

I remember how that night ended- not just with pain, but with people. Three strangers walked up. They saw what was happening. They saw me. I asked them for help, and they acted immediately. Soon the police arrived. Lights, noise, the blur of questions. I was taken to the hospital, placed under cold fluorescent lights while someone explained what a rape kit was. My new purple dress was bagged as evidence. I had photos of me taken. I remember how surreal it all felt, like I was watching it happen to someone else. But it was me. A scared, broken version of me that I’ve carried around for a long time.

That night was one of the worst moments of my life, but in some ways, it was everything that came after that really fractured me. The panic attacks. The nightmares. The fear of being alone, of being outside after dark. The way I flinched at shadows. Within two weeks, I was put on a low dose xanax- “take as needed,” the doctor said. But I needed to feel okay all the time. I needed silence in my head. I needed something to make me forget that monsters in the night do exist.

But maybe the part that hurt the most was how people around me changed. My family started walking on eggshells, treating me like I was made of glass, and in doing so they made me feel uncomfortable- unreachable. I know they didn’t mean to hurt me. I know they just didn’t know what to say or how to say it. But their silence made me feel alienated, like I was being held at arm’s length while they tried to protect their illusion of peace. I didn’t need quiet. I needed to be held. I needed my mom. And she didn’t know how to show up for me.

One of the hardest memories I have isn’t even from that night- it’s from the trial that followed. I was on the stand, retelling everything in excruciating detail, my voice trembling as I bared myself to strangers and lawyers and a judge. I looked into the courtroom and saw my mother walking out. She left. She later told me it was because she couldn’t handle hearing the details. But she didn’t know how abandoned I felt. How empty I felt sitting there without her. I needed her so badly then. And she wasn’t there. We were never really the same after that. And that’s a shame.

I’ve carried that night - and everything that followed - like a weight on my back. But I think by writing it, by finally letting the words live outside of me, I’ve lifted a piece of that weight. Maybe not all of it. Not yet. But enough to breathe a little deeper tonight.

This entry is a beginning. Not of the story- that already happened. But of my reclaiming of it.

I get to decide what this memory means to me now.

It does not define me. It is not my whole story.

But my healing? That is mine.

And I’m holding onto it with both hands.

[iamdrowninghelpme98]

Entry 39:

2025

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

April

I’ve been trying really hard lately to have a good couple of weeks.

I’ve been behaving- not going out, not working at the club, cutting back on getting high. Mostly I’ve just been working my retail job and staying home. Honestly, I’m tired of ending up at the bar alone, looking like the lonely loser in the corner. I don’t want to be that version of myself anymore. I want to be better than I’ve been.

There have been some bright spots too. I had some really good family time, which feels like an early birthday gift in itself. I got to see my mom and my adopted dad multiple times over the last few weeks. I’ll admit, with my mom, I sort of forced it. She posted where she was on Facebook, so I showed up at the bar she was at and played it off like I just happened to be nearby. Maybe a little desperate, but honestly? I didn’t want to spend Easter alone again. I figured if I saw her the night before, maybe it would lead to an invite for Easter dinner. And even if it was slightly orchestrated, it was nice to be included. I’m tired of spending holidays alone. For years, I used those days as excuses to get extra high or drink more- to numb the feeling of being unwanted. I don’t want to put myself in those situations anymore.

Seeing my adopted dad was different though- I didn’t have to force anything with him. He actually wanted to see me.

Both times we met up, we got lunch and went on long walks, just talking about life, about everything and nothing. It felt like real family time. He’s such a good listener - it doesn’t matter what I bring up, he always hears me out without judgment.

I was thinking about it the other night- he doesn’t have to be there for me. There’s no blood tie obligating him to care. But he chooses to show up for me anyway, and that choice means more than I know how to explain. He really sees me as a daughter.

I haven’t felt like anyone’s kid in such a long time.

Ever since I moved out at sixteen, it’s like that bond just evaporated- the feeling of being someone’s responsibility, someone’s child. I know I’m still “family” to my parents, but that’s all it feels like now- relatives, not a parent and a child.

The bond is missing.

But with my adopted dad, I feel it again.

I feel like someone’s daughter. And I don’t take that lightly. I want to do right by him. His opinion genuinely matters to me in a way very few people’s opinions do. I value his advice - I listen when he speaks.

Most of all, I believe him when he says he loves me.

He has every quality a real dad should have. I don’t want to lose that.

I don’t want him to ever see me the way my adopted mom sees me now.

She actually messaged me the other day. It caught me off guard. She never reaches out, so I was scared to open it.Part of me was terrified it would be something bad- maybe even a message telling me to stop bothering her husband. But it wasn’t that. It was about someone we both know losing their parent. I was genuinely sorry to hear about it, and I tried to use it as a way to start a real conversation with her.

But it went nowhere.

She answered with one word replies, short, clipped statements that made it clear she didn’t want to talk any more than she absolutely had to.

It hurts more than I want to admit.

She hates me.

I can feel it in every interaction. And the worst part is- I can’t even blame her. I know I gave her every reason to hate me. I made a mess of so many things. But even knowing that, it doesn’t make the pain any easier to sit with.

I miss her.

I miss being loved by her.

I miss being cared about by her.

Now, it feels like she’s moved on completely. Like she’s carved me out of her life so thoroughly that she barely even notices the hole I left behind.

She doesn’t want me in her life.

And whether or not I deserve it, it still breaks my heart.

It’s a harsh realization:

Even R reaches out regularly.

Even R calls and texts to ask if I’m okay.

Even R says he misses me, that he hates how much time we’ve lost.

Even R cares if I disappear.

But not her.

She’s okay with me being gone.

Maybe she’s even relieved.

And it just confirms that nagging feeling I try so hard to fight:

I’m more trouble than I’m worth.

And the people I lose are better off without me.

Still, despite all of this pain, I’m trying. I’m trying to have better days. I’m trying to be better than the person I’ve been.

And deep down, even when it feels hopeless, I think that matters.

[iamdrowninghelpme98]

Entry 38:

2025

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

April

It’s been a little over a week since I left the beach, and I keep trying to hold on to the peace I felt there- the warmth of the sand, the sound of the waves, the quiet that let me breathe. I remember writing from that place, feeling something I hadn’t in a long time: hope. And I don’t want to lose that.

But it’s not easy.

I’m trying. I really am. But my body is fighting me every step of the way. I knew withdrawal would be miserable, but knowing and feeling it are two different things. The nausea, the shaking, the exhaustion that keeps me locked in place- it’s unbearable some days. I force myself to eat, but nothing stays down. I tell myself to move, but my limbs feel like lead. And the loneliness… it’s the worst part. When I’m in it, drowning in the discomfort, it feels like I’m the only person in the world. Like I don’t exist beyond this pain.

I’m not clean yet, but I’m using less. I only take a few pills when I absolutely have to. It’s not perfect, but it’s progress.

And then there’s R. I haven’t seen him since Valentine’s Day, since everything that happened. But he still won’t let go, still calls and texts me almost every day. He was so angry when I refused to fly him out to the beach with me, but I needed that space- I needed to be away from him, to just exist on my own, without the weight of him pressing down on me. He seems to have let go of that anger now, but the messages haven’t stopped. His birthday just passed, and for the first time in years, we weren’t together to celebrate. That part feels strange, almost like a piece of me is missing, even though I know I need this distance.

I have to focus on getting better. I have to focus on myself, not on him, not on whatever is or isn’t happening between us. That’s too heavy for me to carry right now. My energy is already stretched thin, and if I don’t use every bit of it to keep going, I’ll slip.

I don’t want to slip. I want to keep moving forward. Even when it hurts. Even when it feels impossible. Even when I’m alone.

I have to keep trying.

[iamdrowninghelpme98]

Entry 37:

2025

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

March

I’m sitting on the sand right now, watching the ocean stretch endlessly in front of me. The waves come and go, constant and steady, like they’re reminding me that life keeps moving forward no matter how stuck I feel. A few days ago, in a haze of exhaustion and impulsiveness, I packed a bag, bought a cheap night flight, and ended up here in South Carolina. I didn’t think it through — I just needed to be anywhere but home, somewhere quiet where I could breathe.

It’s the anniversary of losing Everly. I knew staying home would swallow me whole, and I couldn’t let myself sink into that darkness again. R has been texting me more than ever lately, and it’s taken everything in me to respond as little as possible. He even asked me to fly him out here to meet me in SC, and for the first time in a long time, I said no. I’m proud of myself for that- for standing firm and holding on to this space I carved out for myself. I’ve spent so long bending to his wants, his needs, but I needed this time. For me.

I’ve been doing my best to focus on the happy memories of my daughter, but the grief feels so tangled up with everything else. The good moments are there, but they hurt too- reminders of what could have been, of how much was stolen from us. I keep telling myself that I can’t let the weight of it all push me back into the pills. I only brought enough with me to avoid getting sick, and every day I’m trying to need them less. It’s hard. I’ve been drinking more than I should to take the edge off, but even through the haze, I can feel this flicker of… hope. It’s strange, almost foreign- like I barely recognize it. But it’s there, and I want to hold on to it. I need it.

The first night I landed, I was super drunk and realized I didn’t have a place to stay. I ended up sleeping on the beach, and honestly waking up to the sunrise, the sound of the waves, and the warmth of the sun on my face - it was kind of magical. I know it was reckless passing out in public, but for the first time in a while, I didn’t wake up feeling like the world was suffocating me.

I found a little hotel the next day — nothing super fancy, but it’s quiet and cozy. Way nicer than any place I’ve stayed at in a long time. I’ve been spending my days walking along the shore, letting the ocean pull my thoughts away from the things that hurt. I’ve been sleeping, I’ve had more rest than I’ve had in a long time.

I’ve had a lot of time to think out here. I’m realizing how much of my headspace has been trapped in the idea of escaping everything permanently. I’ve spent so many nights turning the thought over and over, convincing myself it would be easier to just end it. But I haven’t acted on it. Not in weeks. No cutting, no burning, no giving in. The thoughts still creep in, but I’m trying to remember what I learned in therapy. I keep hearing my therapist’s voice telling me to step back, to untangle myself from the emotions and let them pass like a wave, without letting them pull me under. It’s hard. Sometimes really hard. Waves can be big and scary, but they crash and then it’s over. Just like the waves I’m looking at on the beach.

I went to a local Narc Anon meeting down here in SC, and for the first time in a long time, I actually talked. It felt safer, somehow, being so far away from home- like the miles between me and my old life made it easier to be honest. Knowing I’d never see any of these people again gave me the kind of anonymity I do so well with.

One by one, people stood up and shared. Most started with their name and how many days sober they had. When it was my turn, I felt the heat rise in my face. I don’t have any days sober to claim. All I could say was that I was trying to wean myself off, taking less each day, even though I know that’s not how this is supposed to work. I braced myself for judgment- for the looks that usually come with admitting you’re still using- but they never came. Just quiet understanding. It hit me how badly I needed that, to feel seen by people who get it.

I told them I’ve been an addict for ten years. A decade. Saying that out loud felt like swallowing glass. That’s nearly half my life wasted chasing a high, numbing everything that hurt until the numbness became the only thing I could feel. I admitted I lost count of how many times I’ve overdosed- most of them accidental, some… not so much. I wanted to believe that surviving those close calls would be enough to scare me straight, but it never stuck. I told them that too, how I’m stuck in this place where I don’t know if I even want to live, and because of that, almost dying doesn’t hit me the way it should. I feel guilty for that. I think about the people I know who didn’t get to wake up after their overdose, and the ones who lost someone they loved to addiction. I know I’m lucky. I got saved. I got another chance. But it’s hard to feel grateful when part of me still doesn’t know what to do with it.

It felt amazing to say that out loud.

After the meeting ended, a few people came up to me- not to offer pity, but to tell me they understood. One woman, probably in her 50s, said she remembered feeling the same hopelessness, that she had to hit her rock bottom more times than she could count before she finally climbed out for good. Thirteen years sober now. Another guy, closer to my age, told me he’d relapsed more times than he could admit, but what mattered was that he kept coming back. He’s got three months. It wasn’t the cliché encouragement I expected, but raw honesty, like they wanted me to know they believed I belonged there- that I wasn’t a lost cause.

I know I can’t stay here forever. Reality is waiting for me back home: work, bills, figuring out how to get myself into a program that sticks. But for the first time in what feels like forever, I actually believe that I can get better.

I want to get better.

Better get a plane ticket home soon.

[iamdrowninghelpme98]

Entry 36:

2025

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

March

I think I’m ready. I want to be ready. I have to be ready. I’m making a serious attempt at sobriety again, not just in words but in actions. This past week, I’ve been trying- really trying- to cut back, to resist, to regain control. It hasn’t been easy, but I’m still here. I got my work bonus. Thousands of dollars, more money than I’ve seen in my hands at one time in so long. Just days ago, I had nothing, and now, overnight, I have options. Possibilities. And I’m terrified.

I worked for this. A whole year of effort, of showing up, of pushing through, and now that it’s real, I don’t know what to do with it. What I do know is that having this much money is dangerous. The temptation is louder than ever. If I wanted to, I could buy anything. Any escape, any high, anything to silence my thoughts for a little while. But I can’t. I won’t. I worked too damn hard for this, and I refuse to let it slip through my fingers like I’ve let so many other things slip away.

A year ago, when I started working toward this, I thought I’d be clean by now. I imagined myself standing here, proud of how far I’d come, secure in my recovery. And for a while, I was. But then I relapsed, and the regret is suffocating. I hate that I let myself fall back into it. I hate that I have to start over. Again. But I’m trying. I’m clawing my way back, even if I’m doing it alone. I don’t have a program, I don’t have therapy, but I’m trying to remember what I learned. Trying to apply it now, when it matters the most.

I miss therapy. I miss the release of talking to someone who didn’t make me feel like a burden. Sure, it was their job, but that didn’t change the fact that it helped. Writing is all I have now, and while it’s something, it’s not the same. I hate that my thoughts are so negative, that I carry this weight with me everywhere I go. No wonder people keep their distance. Who wants to be around someone who’s drowning in their own sadness? I wouldn’t.

That fear-the fear of how people see me-eats at me. My last therapist helped me untangle it, helped me understand that it wasn’t just about being disliked. It was about knowing, truly knowing, how my choices have affected the people I love. It’s easier to tell myself they don’t care, that they left because I wasn’t worth it. But what if it’s not that simple? What if they cared so much that leaving was the only way they could survive?

I remember my therapist telling me that we can’t be the main character in someone else’s life. That when we start to take up too much space-especially in a destructive way- people have to reclaim their lives however they can, even if that means cutting us out. I understood that, but it crushed me. The idea that I’ve been a villain in so many people’s stories, that my presence has caused more harm than good. That realization made me afraid to really see myself through their eyes. What if all I see is a monster?

One of the hardest things I ever did was sit in that support group my therapist recommended. It was for people whose lives had been affected by an addict-mothers, fathers, siblings, partners, all carrying the weight of someone else’s choices. I didn’t go to speak, just to listen. And what I heard broke me. A mother who found her 17-year-old son dead in his room, overdosed. Another whose daughter chose the streets over her family, chasing a high she could never outrun. So many stories of love twisted into grief, of families shattered, of pain so deep I could feel it radiating through the room.

I know pain. I know loss. But that night, I saw it in such a raw way. Addiction doesn’t just destroy the person using- it takes everyone down with them. I saw the wreckage left behind, the open wounds of people who had tried everything and still lost. It made me wonder how many times I’ve left someone in pain, how many times my choices have made someone cry when I wasn’t looking.

I don’t want to be the reason someone else hurts ever. I don’t want to be another story shared in a circle of grieving families. I need to get clean. Not just for myself, but for everyone who ever loved me, even if these same people don’t love me anymore.

I don’t like the person I become on drugs. They strip me of everything that makes me feel real, leaving me lifeless, irritable, and distant. I catch myself spacing out mid-conversation, my mind detached from the world around me, stuck in some foggy limbo where nothing feels urgent, nothing feels real. And when the high fades- when my body aches, my temper shortens, and my skin crawls with the weight of withdrawal- I feel even further from the person I want to be. It’s a bitter cycle, one that always promises relief but delivers destruction.

I wish getting high didn’t feel so good. For those fleeting moments, nothing hurts. My body feels light, my mind quiets, and the chaos inside me settles into something almost peaceful. But it never lasts. It never, ever lasts. The crash always comes too soon, and it always hits harder than the last time. I tell myself it isn’t worth it, and I know deep down that it’s true, but when the pain becomes unbearable- whether it’s the emotional torment I still don’t know how to process or the physical pain that lingers in my body like a ghost-I find myself craving escape.

I need to find other ways to cope. Writing helps. Walking helps. Getting back into therapy would help, too.

I want to break free from this cycle. I want to find a way to live without constantly needing an escape. But some days, I don’t even know where to begin.

I need to stop working at the club. I'll never get clean being there- that's impossible. There are drugs everywhere, and drug dealers too. It's too much temptation. Even if I tell myself I can resist, the environment makes it nearly impossible.

Plus, being there is torturous if I'm not high. The music, the lights, the customers, the expectations..it's all too much when I'm sober. It's so hard to fake being okay when I feel everything so intensely. When I'm using, I can numb it out, push through, play the part. But sober? Sober, it feels unbearable.

That makes so much sense to me now. Being in an environment surrounded by drugs and the people who sell them makes staying clean feel impossible. It’s not just the temptation- it’s the way it forces me to pretend I’m okay when I’m not, which is exhausting. No one should have to push through that alone, especially in a place that’s actively working against their recovery.

Leaving the club is a big decision, but deep down, I already know it’s necessary. Even though money is tight, my sobriety has to come first. Maybe there’s another way to make ends meet that doesn’t put me in harm’s way. It won’t be easy, but it’s worth it. I deserve a future where I don’t have to be high just to get through the day.

I want to get clean. I want to be free. And that means I have to let this place go. Find a way to be financially free without having to be anywhere near a club.

This bonus should help.

I really really want to be better.

[iamdrowninghelpme98]

Entry 35:

2025

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

February

I had a great day yesterday!

Last night, I had dinner with my adopted dad for a belated birthday celebration, and it was honestly such a great time. I love spending time with him- I could talk to him for hours. He’s always so kind, such a good listener, and he doesn’t judge me. Yesterday was awesome, I felt genuine happiness. I continue to deeply appreciate him and everything he does to remind me that I’m loved and not alone. I needed that reminder this week. I really want to see him more if I can. I’m just so lucky to have him.

My adopted dad even asked about Everly. We talked a little about her- I should have shown him pictures. Next time, I will. She was so beautiful. I only have a handful of photos we were able to take, but I have her ultrasounds and pictures from the baby shower. Maybe he would want to see those too. I wasn’t really able to share any of them with my family anyway. R’s family planned my baby shower, and most of the attendees were his extended family and his parents’ friends. My family was noticeably absent.

Of course at that time I had believed my adopted family knew about my pregnancy, but that was just another lie orchestrated by R. My adopted dad says he never got a text, and my adopted mom said the same. Maybe they would have gone to my shower if they had known.

Even though I didn’t say much, it felt good to talk about her. I’ll definitely show him some pictures next time. I don’t even think he’s ever seen one of me pregnant- I was huge! I couldn’t believe how big I really got, lol.

Before my adopted mom went back to hating me, she once mentioned that I should make a scrapbook of all the photos and memories of Everly and the happy times during my pregnancy. I’d really like to do that. Maybe it would help me hold onto the moments that were beautiful, even in the middle of everything else.

We talked a little about my adopted mom, but nothing has really changed. She still pretends I don’t exist, though he tells me she still loves me. I don’t believe that, but what do I really know about love? I feel like I’m at a permanent impasse with her, and while it’s sad, I’ve accepted it.

I’ve messaged her occasionally, but it never sparks a real conversation. I suppose we’re both waiting on an apology that neither of us may be willing to give- or perhaps even accept. It’s been years now, and I just know in my heart that she’s moved on from any attachment she may have had for me. It’s not like she ever actually needed me anyway. Maybe that’s what hurts the most, realizing that no matter how much I miss her or wish things were different, I may be more replaceable to her than she ever was to me. She has a real son, he’s a good guy, she doesn’t need a stupid addict daughter.

I’m sadder about that than I’m willing to admit, but it’ll be okay, I have to accept it. I’m lucky my adopted dad still sees value in me, I feel safe and seen with him- just like I used to with her. I hope he never hates me the way she does.

I lightly brought up my two plans for my work bonus with him. We mostly talked about the first option- using the money for a car and maybe some rent. It probably wouldn’t be enough for any long-term treatment, but it would help with stability. Then, I mentioned my other plan. Plan B.

Take all the money, travel, stay in hotels I could never afford, eat expensive food, buy all the drugs I want. Live a good few more weeks, and then be done with it all. Enjoy a slice of life and leave this world happier then I’ve been in years. I don’t think he realized how serious I was. I said it in a “joking” way to avoid worrying him, but I wanted to put it out there, just in case. If I do go that route, I don’t want it to feel sudden or shocking- I don’t want to hurt him more than I already have.

Option B is tempting. A few more weeks of freedom, of indulgence, of feeling something good before disappearing for good. No more struggle, no more pain, no more feeling like I’m just barely holding it together. I wish this money was coming to me when I was more stable. My adopted dad told me he would be sad if I was gone, I believe him, that gives me something to consider. I don’t want to cause him any more pain. But would my absence be less painful then my presence in the long run?

I truly don’t know…

I saw R on Valentine’s Day. He got us an Airbnb to stay in. It went horribly. We got into an argument about me not wanting to move back in with him yet, about how I want to stay here longer. He responded the way he always does- by hurting me. Again.

My eye is red and swollen. My stomach has a deep, aching bruise. He kicked me so hard. I threw up blood. Eating hurts- I can only take a few bites at a time so I don’t expand my abdomen muscles too much. But it’s nothing new. These are all injuries I’ve had before, just another reminder that R hasn’t changed. He never will. I need to keep reminding myself of that. He will always treat me however he pleases, and there is nothing I can say or do that will stop him. I don’t know why he thinks hurting me will make me change my mind about coming back home with him. When he decided I had been punished enough that night, he finished by saying, “we’ll revisit this topic later.” It’s probably a good thing I’m choosing to stay with my friends longer, R continues to prove that.

And just like always, he followed it up with his version of an apology. This time, it was $100, telling me to use it for rent. And what’s pathetic is that I actually took the money. I needed it. But it wasn’t worth getting beaten for. Nothing ever is. I still had to sleep in bed next to him that night, I silently cried and he just drifted off to sleep unbothered.

The next morning, R brought me to urgent care. “If they ask, you got into a fight with a girl you work with at the club,” he told me beforehand. I felt like the same stupid 16 year old me getting coached on how to answer friends and teachers who would inquire about the bruises. It’s been ten years of this cycle. It’s exhausting, and I want out.

But at least he took it easy on me this time, it could have been much worse. I’ll be okay.

I wish I wasn’t used to this.

I wish he would stop hurting me.

[iamdrowninghelpme98]

Entry 34:

2025

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

January

I miss my daughter. I miss her. I miss her so much it physically hurts. Losing her was the most painful, heart-shattering experience of my life, and nothing has come close to that kind of loss. I want to be with her again more than anything. I would trade every breath I have left to hold her one more time. This world feels empty without her.

What makes her absence even harder is how no one else seems to remember she was ever here. No one talks about her. No one brings her up. It’s as if she’s become a ghost, erased from everyone’s memories but mine. That breaks my heart more than I can put into words. She mattered. She was real. She was loved. Pretending she didn’t exist doesn’t make it easier for me- it makes it worse. People think silence is kindness, but it isn’t. Acknowledging her, saying her name, remembering her… that would bring me comfort. She deserves to be remembered. I refuse to let her be forgotten.

Sometimes I talk about her with R. It feels like he’s the only other person who remembers, but even he can barely speak about her. She was his daughter too, yet the pain seems to silence him. I get it- it’s hard to talk about her without breaking apart. But she’s not some sad secret to be buried away. Her short life was beautiful. She brought more joy and peace into my world than anything or anyone ever has.

Carrying her was the greatest privilege I’ve ever had. Even when R kept me so isolated and cut off from the world, I had her. She was my constant companion, my reason to keep going. I was never truly alone because she was there with me. Her pregnancy was hard, but I would do it all over again just to spend that time with her again.

She was special, my baby girl. She was funny, too-always had me craving the weirdest things like mustard on tomatoes or soy sauce on pretzels. She moved around so much, always reminding me of her presence. I knew she was a girl before the doctors even told me. I just knew. That’s how connected we were.

I’ll never forget the day I found out I was pregnant. It wasn’t planned- I didn’t think it could happen, not in the state I was in back then, but it did. I had all the symptoms: the nausea, the exhaustion, and then I was late. I took a pregnancy test in secret, at the club of all places. Not exactly a storybook moment. I cried for hours in the club bathroom. I was terrified. I didn’t know who to turn to.

The first person I thought of was my adopted mom, but I knew she hated me back then. We weren’t talking, and I didn’t think she’d even take my call. Still, I tried. I dialed her number, but I hung up before she could answer. She never called back. So I sat there, alone in the bathroom, crying until I could pull myself together.

I waited a few days before telling R. He started to suspect something was up, mostly because I’d stopped using. When I finally told him, he was overjoyed. I hadn’t seen him that happy in so long, and his joy made me feel hopeful for the first time in forever. My baby had that effect- just her existence brought hope and happiness to everyone around her.

She was supposed to do great things. I know it. If she’d been given the chance she deserved, she would have changed the world. She was going to be amazing. It’s not fair she was taken so soon, so suddenly. We were so close- just a few more weeks until her due date. But instead, I lost her.

I relive that day over and over again in my mind, trying to find some sense of meaning or purpose in it, but I can’t. There’s no “bigger picture” or “God’s plan” that makes this okay. It was cruel. She deserved life. I should have died that day, not her. She would have mattered in this world so much more than I ever could.

I miss her. I miss her. I miss her.

[iamdrowninghelpme98]

Entry 33:

2025

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

January

My sister is finally out of the hospital. When I saw her walking out those doors, I could have cried- relief doesn’t even begin to cover it. She’s still so fragile, bruises fading but still visible, and she has a long road of recovery ahead of her. But she’s so determined, so strong. She’s inspiring, truly. I’m so proud of her.

Being by her side these past weeks brought us closer than we’ve been in a long time. I didn’t realize how much I missed my sisters until I was there with her, brushing her hair, holding her hand. It felt good to be her big sister again, to feel like I had a purpose, even if just for a little while. I hope we can keep this connection going- I’d love to see all my sisters together soon. I need that. I really do.

R came back from his home state and rented an Airbnb for us to stay in this week. I’ve missed so much work while in the hospital, I don’t have a dollar to my name right now. I’m just grateful that with R, I’ll have food and company- at least for the next few days. I hate being dependent on him like this, but without him, I don’t know where I’d be right now.

I told him I wanted to go to rehab. He laughed when I said it, not cruelly, just in that way that says, Come on, we both know you’re not serious. And maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m not. Not when I’m still getting high with him every chance I get. But deep down, I want to be clean. I do. I just don’t know how. I’ve tried before, and I’ve never been able to do it on my own—not for long. I feel like I’m climbing out of a pit, and every time I get close to the top, I slip and fall right back down.

Rehab isn’t an option right now. I have no money for it. Maybe in the spring, when I get my work bonus, I’ll finally have enough to go. But that feels so far away, and I don’t know if I can make it until then. I’m exhausted, physically and mentally. The drugs aren’t helping anymore. They just keep me going, and I hate how much I rely on them. I’m such a mess.

And then there’s this other part of me, the darker part, the part that whispers terrible things when I’m at my lowest. That part says, Forget rehab. Take the money and blow it. Travel somewhere beautiful, get all the drugs you want, and burn out. At least you’d go out happy. And the worst part is, it doesn’t sound that crazy when I’m sitting here, feeling so lost, so hopeless.

Have a good few last weeks, then end it all.

Isn’t there anyone out there who cares? Anyone who can see how much I’m struggling and just… help me? I keep asking myself what I have to do to be worthy of that kind of help. Is it too much to ask for someone to see me and not just my mistakes? I don’t want to feel like this anymore. I don’t want to be this person. But I don’t know how to stop.

[iamdrowninghelpme98]

Entry 32:

2025

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

January

I woke up this morning in a hospital room of my own. I didn’t even know where I was at first- everything felt fuzzy, disjointed. The last thing I remember is sitting outside my sister’s hospital room, trying to fight off the waves of withdrawal that were crashing over me. I must have passed out, and now here I am. Checked in. Detoxing. It’s humiliating.

Last night was unbearable. I couldn’t get my hands on the pills I needed to stop feeling sick. R left to go back to his home state, promising he’d come back and bring me what I needed. But I didn’t make it. I couldn’t make it. The withdrawals hit me harder than they have in a long time. Days of shaking, drenched in sweat, every inch of me aching like my body was trying to tear itself apart. I tried to keep it together for my sister’s sake, to hide how bad it was from her, her nurses, and anyone else who came by. But I couldn’t. I was sneaking out in the middle of the night to throw up behind the hospital, shivering in the freezing cold. It was like my body was punishing me for every choice I’ve made.

I wish I never relapsed. I wish I had stayed strong, kept fighting. But that’s the thing about addiction- it doesn’t let go of you. Even when you think you’ve got it beat, it’s still there, waiting for the smallest crack to sneak back in. And now I’m here, stuck in this miserable cycle. This isn’t living. It’s surviving in the worst way possible.

Being a drug addict is like being trapped in a cage that you built yourself. Every day, you promise yourself it’s the last time. That you’ll stop, that you’ll get clean, that you’ll take back control of your life. But the cravings come, and they’re louder than anything else. They drown out your promises, your self-worth, your willpower. You’ll do things you swore you’d never do again. You’ll hurt people you love. You’ll destroy yourself, all for something that only gives you a few moments of relief. And the worst part? You know exactly what you’re doing. You know how it’s going to end. But you do it anyway because the fear of withdrawals, the pain of being without it, is worse than anything you can imagine.

This isn’t the life I wanted. This isn’t the person I wanted to be. But here I am. Miserable. Weak. Full of shame.

As soon as they discharge me, I’ll go back to my sister’s side. She needs me, and I owe it to her to be there. But I can already feel the clock ticking, counting down to the moment the withdrawals will hit again. This cycle is hell, and I don’t know how to break it. I hate myself for all of it- for being here, for being this person, for being an addict.

[iamdrowninghelpme98]

Entry 31:

2025

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

January

It’s been a long week in the hospital with my little sister. She was in a terrible car accident- the injuries are devastating. I can’t leave her here alone. I know what it’s like to be alone in a hospital, to count the hours by the sound of machines beeping and strangers coming and going, to feel like the world has forgotten you exist. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, least of all my baby sister. So, I’m here. Sleeping in a chair by her bed most nights, brushing her hair until my arm aches, reading to her even when I’m sure she can’t fully focus on the words. I play music she loves, just to fill the silence, hoping it brings her some small comfort. She can’t say much right now, but she knows I’m here, and that’s what matters.

My mom comes by almost every day. We barely speak. We argued earlier in the week, and now the air between us feels thick and tense. It’s always like this with her- so many words left unsaid, so much weight in the silence. I keep replaying the fight in my head. It started because of R. He brought me to the hospital as soon as I got the call about my sister. He didn’t hesitate, just dropped everything and made sure I got here as quickly as possible. After that, he offered to help my mom. She gave him a long list of things she needed, and he came back with everything. Every single thing. And still, she was cold to him, dismissive. When he asked if he could stay, she sent him away. I got angry-how could she treat him like that after all he’d done to help?

The fight with her was draining, but R doesn’t let it faze him. He keeps showing up for me. He’s been bringing me food, clean clothes, anything I might need while I’m here. He never asks for anything in return. He just knows when I need help, even when I don’t say a word. He just knows, he knows I’m stuck here at the hospital without a car and with no money, so he’s helping. That’s always been his way. He’s there, steady and reliable, no one else has offered.

It’s always R.

There’s something about that. Something I can’t stop turning over in my mind. He’s always there.

[iamdrowninghelpme98]

Entry 30:

2024

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

December

I thought I’d be stronger this year.

I told myself I’d face December 23rd with my head held high, like the years of time since might finally pay off, like this day might lose some of its power over me. But the truth is, it still owns me. It still haunts me. It still tears through my heart like it happened yesterday. And this year, it felt worse. This year, R wasn’t here.

I felt so alone. Alone in a way that pressed on my chest and made it hard to breathe. Everyone knew what this day meant to me. They knew. But no one said anything- no texts and no calls of acknowledgment of the weight I was carrying. No one but him. R. He texted me. Just a simple, “How are you holding up?” But it was enough to break me. He wasn’t here to hold my hand, to tell me I was stronger than this day, but he remembered. And in his own way, he cared.

I hate how much that mattered to me.

But then there’s the part of me that hates myself more for what I did. For the choice I made that I can’t take back.

I’ve had his address for a while now- the rapist who took everything from me that night when I was in highschool. I don’t even know why I kept it. Maybe it was a small, dark piece of me that wanted to believe I’d face him one day. That I’d reclaim the power he stole. And yesterday, with everything I was feeling- the loneliness, the anger, the grief, all the drugs I’ve been on- I let that piece of me win.

I ubered to his house. I was shaking the entire way there, but my mind wouldn’t let me stop. I told myself it was justice. I told myself I needed to do this for me, that I deserved this moment after everything he took.

When I got dropped off there, I stood outside and stared at the door. It was a nice but simple, unassuming house, and it enraged me. How could someone so monstrous live somewhere so ordinary? How could the world let him keep existing like nothing happened?

I knocked. No, I pounded. I screamed at him when he answered, words that had been locked in my throat for years. Words I didn’t even know I had. I told him he was a coward, that he ruined me, that I hope every second of his life is filled with the same fear and helplessness he made me feel. I called him a rapist repeatedly at the top of my lungs.

He didn’t say anything. He just stood there, staring at me like he didn’t even know who I was. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe I was just one name on a list he’s long since forgotten.

Eventually he told me he was calling the police, and slammed the door in my face. So I ran.

I hate that I went there. I hate that I gave him the satisfaction of seeing how much he still affects me. I wanted to feel powerful, but I only felt small. I left shaking, crying so hard I could barely see the road as I was running.

And now, as I sit here writing this, I feel numb. Numb and ashamed. I keep asking myself why I did it. What I thought I’d gain. I don’t have the answer. All I know is that this day still has its claws in me, and I don’t know how to free myself.

Maybe I never will.

Guess I’ll just go get high and cry myself to sleep tonight, maybe I’ll wake up and the holidays will finally be over, or maybe I’ll be luckier and not wake up at all.

[iamdrowninghelpme98]

Entry 29:

2024

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

December

Last night, I spent hours sitting on the edge of an old, abandoned building. I was supposed to be at the club, working- faking smiles, pretending like every touch doesn’t make me want to crawl out of my skin. But an hour into my shift, I couldn’t do it anymore. The music felt deafening, the lights blinding, and every man’s hand on me like a weight I couldn’t bear. It wasn’t anything new; I’ve dealt with it all before. But last night, I felt like I couldn’t breathe.

I just needed to be somewhere else- anywhere else.

There’s an abandoned building not far from where I work on the east side.

It’s the kind of place most people wouldn’t go near, but I didn’t hesitate. The junkies who haunt its shadows didn’t even look at me as I passed. I think they recognized something in me- maybe the same thing I saw in them. I don’t judge them; how could I? I’ve been them before. I am them. I’ve walked their path, and I know how thin the line is between where I am now and where they are. If it weren’t for my friends letting me crash with them, I’d still be out there, too. Sometimes, it feels like I already am.

I climbed to the top of the building and sat on the edge, legs dangling into the night. It was so quiet up there, so still. Just the city below, distant and indifferent. For hours, I stayed there, staring into the darkness. Thinking. Feeling. Or maybe trying not to feel anything at all.

I wanted to jump. I thought about it for a long time- how simple it would be. One moment of courage, and all of it would end. The pain. The sadness. The loneliness. I thought about how freeing it might feel, the weight of everything finally lifting.

I hate what my life is, what it has been, and what it inevitably will always be. I’m just a damaged person, broken, not fixable.

Or perhaps just not worth fixing.

It’s not just one aspect- it’s everything. The ache of losing what I loved most, the guilt that gnaws at me, the loneliness that seems to echo in every room I walk into. It all adds up until I can barely remember what it felt like to not hurt.

The good days are so rare now that when they come, they feel like some cruel joke. They trick me into thinking things might get better, only to vanish just as quickly, leaving me with nothing but the pain I tried so hard to forget. And those good days? They don’t feel like joy anymore- they just feel like less sadness, like a temporary reprieve from the storm.

Every day, it gets harder to justify staying. To tell myself that tomorrow will be any different. I look around and see people moving forward, building lives, finding purpose, and I wonder why I can’t do the same. What’s wrong with me that I can’t find a reason to keep going? Why does everything hurt so much when I’m trying so hard to hold it together?

I keep telling myself that maybe there’s something worth holding on for, but the truth is, I don’t know what that is anymore. The fight feels endless, and I’m so, so tired.

The pills won’t fix this, they never do.

But I didn’t jump last night.

I don’t even know why. Maybe a tiny part of me is still holding on. To what, I’m not sure. Hope? Love? Some distant dream of a life that doesn’t hurt this much?

I wish I had an answer, but all I have is another day.

[iamdrowninghelpme98]

Entry 28:

2024

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

December

I’ve been thinking about doing it again.

I can’t help it. Somehow thinking about not being around brings a strong sense of peace and comfort. I guess writing about it is better than acting on it.

I just feel ready. I’m too tired to keep fighting.

I don’t know if I would leave a note this time. Who would I even address it to anyway?

Besides, I have nothing to say. Not anymore. No one is listening. No one understands.

Maybe someone will find this blog, maybe they won’t, but it won’t matter. Nothing I’ve written matters.

I don’t matter.

Hardly anyone cares. They really don’t.

Not family, not R.

Sometimes I wish R would have just done it, got things over with. I thought eventually he might, that would have made things easier for me.

Most everyone only tolerates me, and it’s painfully obvious.

Occasionally, people will reach out to me. Once in a while, someone will make plans to spend maybe an hour with me every few weeks or so. Sometimes, I’ll get a random text or a casual “How are you?” message. But even then, I know the truth. I know I’m no one’s first choice. My roommates barely even knock on my door anymore. I do nothing more than haunt the background of their apartment.

On any given day, if you were to ask my friends, my family, or my adopted family who they would want to spend time with, who they would want to talk to- it wouldn’t be me. I wouldn’t even make the list. I’m a pitied afterthought at best.

No one wants me around regularly.

No one.

And I’ve tried to make peace with that. I’ve tried to convince myself that maybe it’s just the way things are, that I shouldn’t need to be someone’s priority to feel okay. But it hurts. It eats at me every day, this undeniable feeling that I’m tolerated, not wanted, not welcomed.

How could I possibly feel any differently when people’s actions speak louder than words? It’s the holiday season, and no one has invited me to anything. Not a dinner, not a gathering, not even a casual “come hang out.” I didn’t go to a Thanksgiving dinner. Instead, I got high at the club with strangers. That’s my reality. That’s what my life has become- a hollow blur of faces I don’t know and people who don’t care.

There’s no safe place for me to exist without feeling like a burden to someone else. Every space I occupy feels like it comes with strings attached, like I have to justify my presence, explain my worth, or apologize for being there at all.

The only place where I find myself consistently noticed is inside the strip club. And even then, it’s not me they see- it’s a performance, a body, a fantasy. If my only purpose in this world is to degrade myself for men on a nightly basis, then what am I even still doing here? How can that be enough to keep me going?

No one should have to live like this. No one should have to navigate a life where they’re disposable, where they’re only valued for what they can give, and even that value is fleeting and shallow. This isn’t living. It’s surviving in the loneliest, most painful way imaginable.

My absence would be nothing. Those who even notice will move on quickly, it’ll be like I never existed at all- the way it should have been in the first place.

Most will feel relieved.

I don’t want a funeral. I don’t think I’d even get one. I don’t have any money saved, and maybe my family would pay for it, but I hope not. Funny enough, though, that would probably be the only time they’d be willing to help me out financially- when it’s already too late. People only help when it’s too late. That’s been my experience, over and over again.

Maybe I should do it somewhere they wouldn’t find my body for a while, if ever. Find a hole in the ground out in the woods somewhere and overdose. Eat a peanut and jump into the river a couple states over. Put myself in the garbage where I belong and wait to be compacted. Maybe people would assume I just ran away- if my absence ever even crossed their mind.

A funeral would be a joke anyway. A room full of people pretending to be sad that I’m gone, most of the same people who wouldn’t help me while I was here. The same people who let me drown silently, who watched me struggle and looked away. That’s assuming anyone would even show up. I doubt many would. And honestly? I don’t want them there.

What would even be said?

“Gone too soon.” No, not gone soon enough.

“We didn’t see this coming.” Then you never looked.

“She will be missed.” HAHA. Waited for me to be gone to break that line out. It’s just for show.

“She was loved.” Well she would have done anything to be shown that. I loved you guys though, even when I knew you a lot of you didn’t love me back.

Maybe my mom and dad should just show up to put me in the ground. One last chore, one final obligation. That way, they all get to let me down one last time, the way I’m used to. It would be fitting, in a way. The perfect end to a life that’s been nothing but disappointments and hollow promises.

I don’t even blame anyone for not wanting anything to do with me.

Whether that’s in life or death.

It’s not their fault I’m awful.

No one hates me more than I hate me, so I get it. I really do. But what I can’t let go of, what eats away at me every day, is the fact that these same people are the ones who told me they would be there for me. The majority of the people in my life swore up and down that they would help me if I left R. They said I’d never be alone, that I’d have their support. And yet, here I am. Almost entirely alone. Struggling.

Almost no one has kept their word.

But to those few who did, you’ve kept me going longer than I would have ever been able to on my own. You’re the reason I am still here fighting, the only reason I haven’t done it yet.

My friends who let me crash with them, you guys did try to help me in the my time of need, and I will forever appreciate it. I am sorry for the issues my presence brought, especially financially. I felt hiding myself away from you guys would alleviate the burden of having me around, and I don’t know if that helped or worsened the situation. I should have been a better friend, and I wish I had the tools to be that person for you guys. But I am HURTING, and don’t know how to fix myself.

My adopted dad, you made me a feel more hopeful than I had in a long while, and I am grateful for that feeling- even if it wasn’t realistic for myself. I wish I could have manifested those feelings into something more, I know I disappoint you. I wish I could do things to make you proud of me. You make me want to be better, I wish I knew how to do that. I love you so much.

R, you’re the only one who’s never kicked me out of their family. Even in the bad times, I always appreciated knowing you weren’t going to leave me. I made the decision to leave you many times, and you welcomed me back nonetheless. Something my family and some members of my adopted family would not do. I love you.

Everyone always assumes my husband has brought me the most pain, that’s not true, I learned to expect that from him. Instead, it was everyone else who led me to believe I was unconditionally loved when in reality I wasn’t.

My parents.

My adopted mom.

Where were you guys? Too busy pretending I don’t exist I guess.

What was your plan? Convince me to eventually leave my husband and then leave me stranded to fend for myself when I did?

You guys knew I needed help and knew I didn’t have the means on my own to get it. So what did you expect? I would magically heal myself? Did you ever even care? You were okay with letting me carry the grief of losing my daughter all by myself?

Why should you guys help anyway?

My problems are my problems. No one else’s. You guys made that clear, and I know that’s the truth anyway. Everything is my fault.

So I don’t blame you guys, not that any of you would particularly care if I did or didn’t, but just know I don’t blame you. None of you owed me anything, you all hurt me deeply, but I don’t blame you.

I blame myself.

I blame myself for trusting anyone ever.

I blame myself for believing in love.

I blame myself for believing in happiness.

I blame myself for thinking I was worthy of any of these things anyway.

I blame myself for being a piece of shit addict.

I blame myself for being a horrible daughter.

I blame myself for being the worst sister imaginable.

I blame myself for not being enough for my daughter.

I blame myself for not being enough for my husband.

I blame myself for being a failure.

I blame myself for spreading my pain to everyone.

I blame myself for allowing things to get this bad.

I blame myself for allowing this life to go on for so long.

I blame myself for not healing like a normal person should.

I blame myself for allowing myself to be a victim.

I’m sorry I was ever born.

I’m tired.

I’m also a little high.

Maybe it’s the time of the year talking, but maybe it’s just how my heart feels.

[iamdrowninghelpme98]

Entry 27:

2024

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

November

The holidays are creeping closer and closer, and with them, this hollow ache in my chest grows heavier. It’s like the world is moving forward, lighting up in celebration, while I stay frozen, still carrying so much hurt and grief. Last week, I fell into a bad place again. Alcohol and pain pills had me in their grip, suffocating me, but somehow I’ve managed to start pulling myself out. This week’s been better, at least in comparison, though I’m still a mess in so many ways. My sleep is a disaster—either I’m awake for days, restless and staring at the ceiling, or I collapse into bed and can’t find the will to leave it for days on end. No matter what, I don’t feel rested. I just don’t feel good.

I don’t talk about being sick very often. What’s the point? I’ve been sick for years now, untreated and ignored. I try to tell myself it’s my poor self-care catching up with me—my broken sleep schedule, my barely-there meals, my spiraling mental health. But deep down, I can’t help but wonder if something worse is happening, if my body is finally giving out. Maybe I’m just too tired of trying to keep it all together.

And yet, not everything is bad. I have to remind myself of that, over and over again, because it’s so easy to drown in the darkness. My sisters have been around more, and being with them has been a comfort I didn’t realize I needed so badly. My adopted dad has been texting me often—it feels so good to have someone to talk to, someone who genuinely cares. My job’s going well too. For once, there’s this tiny glimmer of excitement: I’m on track to get a bonus, which is huge for me. I don’t have much to hold onto right now, but those things matter. They’re keeping me afloat.

Still, I know I need help. I need to be in rehab or therapy again, somewhere I can work through the weight of everything. The medications I used to take helped so much, especially with the nightmares and flashbacks, but I’ve been off them for far too long now. The nightmares are back in full force, tearing through my nights like a storm I can’t escape. Lately, it’s the same one on repeat- the day I lost my daughter. I can’t stop replaying that memory, as much as it tears me apart. I think about it constantly, especially now, with the holidays forcing family into the spotlight.

I keep seeing myself there, in that hospital room, so scared and so alone. I was in labor, induced suddenly because something was wrong. I didn’t have R. I didn’t have my family. Just me, and these doctors who were strangers to me. I remember watching the door the whole time, praying he’d walk through it, praying someone- anyone- would come sit by my side. No one came. I’ll never forget that fear, that feeling of being so small and powerless. I’ve been in hospitals before, but nothing prepares you for something like that. Delivering a baby is monumental enough, but to do it alone, knowing something was wrong, was unbearable.

And then she was here. My little girl. But she was already gone. R came back only briefly after it was over, held her for just a moment, and then he left again. He left me there, alone with my grief, for the rest of my stay. My nurses were kind- too kind- but I couldn’t even speak to them. I couldn’t let them in. I went mute, retreating into my pain, and they must’ve known how broken I was. They’d come in with sad eyes and soft words, and I hated it. I wanted to disappear, to stop existing in that room, in that moment, in that unbearable silence.

I think about that time so often now. I wish I didn’t, but I do. I miss her more than I could ever explain. Every day is a fight to push through the heaviness, to survive this season that should’ve been full of joy and family, but instead reminds me of everything I’ve lost. I’m trying, though. I’m trying so hard to find the light in the little things, to believe that maybe I’ll get better. But it’s hard. It’s so hard.

[iamdrowninghelpme98]

Entry 26:

2024

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

November

Lonely.

The loneliness has been brutal, clawing at me in every quiet moment. I find myself missing R more than I want to admit. As much as I know our relationship was toxic and caused me so much pain, there’s a part of me that craves the comfort of being wanted, even if it was fleeting and conditional. His absence leaves a void that feels too big to fill, and I hate myself for missing someone who hurt me so deeply.

Even work has been extra hard lately.

The entire store is decorated for the holidays, Christmas music is playing nonstop, and it feels like every little thing is a reminder of what I’ve lost. Families keep coming in, excited and happy, and it just drives the ache deeper. Yesterday, I was bagging baby clothes for a customer and couldn’t hold back my tears. I cried right there in front of them. Everything about this season reminds me that my baby is gone, that I’ll never get to experience the joy of the holidays with her. Instead of spending the holidays buying gifts for my daughter, or anyone in my family, all I can seem to do is replay the horrible memories I’ve learned to associate with this time of year. They’re so deeply ingrained in me, it’s like instinct- my body just knows this is the time to break down again. I’m not strong enough to fight back against the sadness. I need therapy, I need my friends, I need my family. But I feel so far away from all of it- isolated and resourceless, with no clear way to climb out.

And then last week I’m in a car accident with my older sister. I’m grateful we’re both okay, but the aftermath has been harder to process. My phone was recovered by a cop on the scene, but I didn’t have access to it for a few days. I only know R’s and my adopted mom’s numbers by heart, so I called him. I didn’t think my adopted mom would take my calls- even if I’d called from a hospital phone, I’m pretty sure she’d have hung up as soon as she heard my voice. My adopted dad messaged me though, actually a few times just to make sure I was okay. I hate that I worried him, but I felt his love for me extra strong after seeing those texts when I got my phone back. I don’t know what I would do without him in my life.

My mom went to visit my sister in the hospital and never sought me out. That hurt more than I can even put into words. It’s another reminder that I’m not worth showing up for, not even when I’m scared or hurt.

While I was in the hospital, they put me on painkillers. That was such a bad idea. I wish they hadn’t, but they didn’t know, and I’m responsible for my own self control. Now I’ve taken a few pills since leaving. I think that counts as a relapse. I hate admitting that, even to myself. I’m itching for more, and I hate myself for it. I’m a fucking loser.

I keep asking myself what’s wrong with me, why I feel so unlovable. Why do I keep chasing people who can’t-or won’t- love me the way I need? The shame feels heavy, like a constant reminder that I’m broken in some fundamental way. It’s hard not to spiral into self-hatred when it feels like no one sees me, no one cares.

I hate myself for feeling like this, for being so desperate for connection. I hate myself for being so easily discarded, over and over again. I hate myself for wanting things that seem so simple for others but impossible for me.

And I keep talking to my baby girl, hoping she hears me. Hoping she knows how much I loved her, even when I don’t know how to love myself. She’s the only one who feels constantly within my heart, she doesn’t make me feel ashamed of who I am. She was the one good thing that came from me, the only thing I’m proud of.

I feel so low, like I’m sinking deeper into a place I might not be able to climb out of. Everything feels so heavy, and I can’t seem to stop myself from spiraling. One bad decision leads to another, and I’m watching myself lose control. It’s like I’m stuck in freefall, reaching out for something to hold onto, but there’s nothing there. I don’t know how to stop this, and I’m scared of where I’ll end up if I can’t.

[iamdrowninghelpme98]

Entry 25:

2024

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

November

I feel like I’m going to explode. I hope writing some of this helps. I’ve been trying to keep it all inside, I don’t want to burden anyone even further than I have. My friends, my adopted dad, my sisters- they’re all doing so much for me already. How can I dump more on them? No one wants to keep someone around who’s just negative energy, right? I hate that about myself. I hate feeling so stupid and insecure. But it’s in moments like these that I miss R.

Not him exactly-not his anger, not the pain- but just having someone to talk to. Someone who was there daily. I got used to having someone around for ten years, and now that he’s not, I feel so out of place. Like I belong nowhere. Like I could vanish, and it wouldn’t matter. Nothing would change. I don’t matter.

I don’t know how to fix this loneliness. It’s November now, and despite my best intentions, I haven’t been able to repair the relationships with my family. My mom barely acknowledges me, and when she does, it’s never just us. My adopted mom still hates me. My sisters have their own lives, and I don’t blame them. It feels like everyone has already accepted me as a ghost. And honestly, if I died, I don’t think anything would change. I can count on one hand the people who might notice- and one of those counted are the debt collectors who constantly call.

And yet, I still find myself wishing I could mend things. How do you fix relationships with people who want nothing to do with you? They have every reason not to. They’re justified. I know that. But I’m justified in my feelings too. I was hurt too. So why can’t I get an apology? Why do I always have to be the one saying sorry?

I hate that word sometimes. I’ve said it too many times. I’m not sure I even have any left in me. I said sorry to R more than I’ve ever said it to anyone else. I’d apologize to keep the peace, to stop the yelling, to make him feel superior. It was the only way to extinguish the fire when he’d lose control. I’d apologize over and over, even when I didn’t know what I was apologizing for. But in ten years, I can count on one hand how many times he said it back. I’m not sure he’s ever been sorry about anything.

I’m sorry about so many things. Sorry for my life. Sorry for the pain I’ve caused the people around me. Sorry for everything that went wrong. And selfishly, I’m sorry that I want an apology too. I’m sorry for feeling like I deserve one. But I do.

When I was working in Vegas, a woman came in one night with a flyer. She was looking for her daughter, passing the picture around to all of us dancers, asking if we’d seen her. She told me she was from Louisiana and flew to Vegas every month to look for her kid, who’d gone missing two years ago. They’d gotten into a fight, and she ran away. Only seventeen, addicted to drugs. A year after she vanished, someone photographed her working in a club, and the woman has been coming back ever since, hoping to find her again.

I could see her pain. It was written on her face, in her voice, in every exhausted step she took. When she handed me the flyer, I looked closer. At the top, above her daughter’s picture, were the words:

“Madeline, come home. I’m sorry. I love you.”

Those words broke me. I’m sorry. I love you. The distance she traveled, the lengths she went to just to say them in the hope they’d reach her daughter.

The words I’ve also been waiting to hear.

Words that a lot of the girls in this lifestyle are waiting to hear. That’s power of an “I’m sorry”.

Here was this mom going above and beyond to find her child, and mine won’t even text me. My mom wouldn’t come looking for me, she wouldn’t even know I was gone. She wouldn’t even come see me in the hospital last week to at least pretend to care.

I hope that lady’s daughter is okay, and I hope those words reach her. I wonder if she knows she has someone who loves her so much that they never stopped looking for her, she’s not invisible to her family. I hope she knows.

After the lady passed out her fliers to us, she reminded all of us girls to call our mom and tell her we love her.

I stared at my phone for a long time considering it.

But I couldn’t.

Who cares what the invisible screw up has to say.

Not my mom, not my adopted mom.

I miss my daughter.

I’m ready to disappear.

I’ve been drinking way too much