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2013-03-15 / 1:33 p.m.

I'm bringing my two little mongrels for a walk on the outskirts of town and I'm listening to Charles Bukowski read his gut wrenching little poems. My parents are arguing again downstairs. You'd think it gets a little easier at twenty-three. I failed at trying to be stronger. I burst into tears only thirty seconds after making that decision. I guess it's something I can't really just decide. I find myself in the doctor's again, deciding to put aside my pride and just go back on the damn meds. I've given five damn years of my life to telling myself that I can do this without those goddamn drugs. Guess what? I can't. Funny story - I leave without having said a word, and somehow even without a prescription for my fucking pill.
I'm back to not trusting myself anymore. They say that trust is the number one thing required in all relationships (what about love?), and I find that I can't even predict my own big decisions. I've gotten impulsive again. I'm bursting into tears on the street. When it rains, I want to lie down on the ground and just be.
What I mean is this - we are contorting ourselves into individuals, misrepresentations of ourselves. We are fake and we are all so goddamn happy all the time. And for what? Who the fuck are we fooling? People know what I did all those years ago. They know how sad I was. They do not understand it, but they know. It's the first time somebody ever gave me flowers. "Get well soon." I'm fucking trying. God, I'm so angry.
I'm looking forward to summer so I can have a breakdown in peace. Five glorious months of not being able to hold my shit together and not caring who knows it. Not anymore.
As Bukowski put it - I have been left with no more than three options.

"Starve, go mad, or kill yourself."

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