Maybe It Will Help…

Maybe it will help if I type it all out–my anger, fear, rage, emotionally disability, desire to die.  I have been disabled on so many levels, planes, altitudes, planets, and realms of disaster that I can no longer keep up with it all.  Really, I haven’t been “dealing” with any of it for so long, if ever. I just want to type this out and not worry about typos, grammar, spelling–because maybe it really will help me.  My ride on the crazy train has been going on for most of my life. Now that I’m super obese (been this way before), unemployed for almost a year, living with a frugal friend, and still trying to drink myself to death it is about all I can do not to try to jump off the train. I’ve tried to jump before and failed every time. I truly think I have too many fat cells and some sort of cosmic/karmic curse that demands I remain on this plane when I have tried to exit via alcohol and drugs.  I never even passed out.  Thanks to health insurance, I was able to be admitted to hospitals and treatment programs, see counselors, and still, I’m a failure. And I can’t even get drunk properly anymore.  All this fat has morphed me into a waddling crybaby who takes a week to recover after drinking a fifth of whiskey. My one release now has a hell of a price, and I find myself crying out “it’s not fair.” Do I even give a damn? I’m not sure. I wax and wane about life and death, ways to check out versus gathering my senses and getting my act together. As my chest aches and the tears roll down my cheeks, I feel so much shame, guilt, isolation, and I know it’s ultimately my fault.