Maybe that is why I didn't write for a long time. Because I have this feeling where I just need time to breathe. And I can't breathe when I let myself wallow in my own misery and self-pity. I can't really do anything when I think of ...fuck, well anything. If I think I start feeling like I can't breathe, like the world is playing some fucking trick on me.

I can't dwell on my old life or the fact that I lost him. Because I might actually swallow the pills this time.

The knife.

The gun.

And all that's inbetween.

So fuck me and fuck you too.

I've spent so long not thinking or feeling that I've changed too much to go back now. Who wants to hurt when the numb is so tragically helpful? Who wants to fuck with the drug dealer? It helps me ...so don't give me lectures about how I should stop all this 'changing,' all this non-feeling. I can do whatever I want. It's not like you truly cared anyway. So I don't feel very guilty.

You wouldn't believe how much I've changed.

If you know me intimately. You'll be suprised when you see me again. Don't hate me though. And don't try to look for the old May by bringing up old memories. It wont work and it's definetly not worth it. That little may will be rolled up into a little ball hidden in a dark closet until...

I find a way to feel without going insane.

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