Ok I’m back… I’ve been wallowing in a pool of self pity lately which only makes me mad for being ungrateful.  Let’s list things that I can remember I lost while drunk and/or high … Marc Jacobs sunglasses, two Tiffany bracelets, and silver and pearl bracelet from a family trip to Costa Rica (the last family trip we’d ever take the 4 of us), a Jamie Wolf + Derek Lam collaboration ring … actually I lost two of those and since it was a $1000 ring I told myself I wasn’t allowed to buy a third.  Which makes me think of my red flash ray bans which I obviously had before sororities ruined them … after the third pair I cut myself off.  I lose everything.  I’ve lost at least 5 AMQ scarves (RIP as today is the 8 year anniversary of his death) as well as an AMQ ring.  I worked at AMQ for almost two years and to be honest when I think back to my 11 years in NYC those are my favorite times.  Sometimes / all the time I wonder if I fucked up by leaving NYC.

By the time I left NYC I was a full blown and raging alcoholic.  If I had had more access to drugs, I would have continued my cocaine habit as well.

I’m going to switch moods right now.  Thanks to depression this is my life every February – switching moods like a bandit.  And right on cue I forget.  Story of my fucking life.  I can’t remember a Goddamn thing and the more anxious I get the less I remember.

I had an awkward conversation over text with my boyfriend earlier today.  I told him it was the 8th anniversary of Lee Alexander McQueen’s death and he obviously had no idea what I was talking about.  So I brought him up to speed and his next message was “suicide is never the answer.”  He knows my struggles with depression anxiety and cutting.  I tried to restrain myself aside from letting him know if you don’t live it, you don’t understand it.  I’ve never fully tried to kill myself…just lots of thoughts and wishes.  The worst I had the courage to do was swallow a bottle of advil which just made me feel sick.  But I get it.  I understand people that have to let go.  I honestly always figured I’d be dead by now.  Thought I would be a member of 27 club but I wasn’t.  I thought maybe I’d found the 28 club, but no luck.  So here I sit at 32 completely unprepared and confused.  I’m confused because I think I am not supposed to be here anymore.  I’m here so I don’t break my parents’ hearts.

I know I am jumping around but that’s how this fucked up brain works.  Because this is a fucked up brain.  I’m so grateful the mental illness stigma is slowly declining, but at this point I’m 32, and I think some of us can’t be saved.  I will always be desperately sad.

The first night I cut … I hate to write this but I read in a gossip magazine (I rarely read them I swear!) and there was an interview with Demi Lavato talking about bipolar disorder and how she got a tattoo on her wrist to cover up cuts.  My sick self thought maybe that’s the release I need, let’s try it.  So I now have scars and tattoos on my left forearm and scars on my right hand wrist.

The first night I cut I broke the head off of a razor for shaving.  I had never felt so scared but still compelled.  At this point I was living in a 2 bedroom turned into 3 and my bedroom was made out of part of the living room.  I had no windows and no closet so I built (my very dear and best guy friend built) a loft bed.  My clothes hung under my bed.  It was tight to say the least.  This was the only apartment in which I had vermin … there would be mice poop in my lofted bed.

Anyways I remember sitting up there and cutting.  And I felt scared as fuck.  And sick. When I felt like I had enough release I texted my brother sobbing and he came to meet me at a bar across the street.  I was confused about what I had done.  And it was funny because up until then he was the fuck up child (we will revisit this later).

That’s enough history for now.  I guess the point of this post is I’ve lost thousands of dollars physically, and I think I’ve lost myself entirely mentally.

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