“Hell is empty
And all the devils are here.”
– The Tempest, I.ii.215-6
God, I fucking love The Tempest, it really is such a pleasure to read, every time.
I’m very confused about a lot of things lately.
Basically, my brain is dragging me in eighty-six different directions all at the same time. It’s fucking exhausting. I’d like it to stop.
The past two weeks I’ve relapsed in a spectacular manner (not once, not twice, but too many times for it to be a minor ‘blip’ or ‘slip-up’) and I don’t understand why I haven’t dragged my arse back to rehab yet.
Hey, I want to get better, I really do, but first I want to drink myself to the brink of death and do a load of fucked up shit, real dangerous like, all of the bad things that I could possibly do, before I surrender, a slave to the sauvignon, and have to succumb to my least favourite D, the Detox, the Detox that grows more dreaded, difficult and disgusting with each passing drink.
My tendency towards self-destruction is like my favourite pair of jeans. I know I should but I simply can’t throw them away, even though they have a hole in the crotch area and are generally a filthy, bloody mess.
Fuck. I am so stupid.
But stupid feels better than sober.
On Monday night, I got engaged to a man who I’d only known for 4 hours.
He has paranoid schizophrenia and has suffered other grim experiences in his life, and together we are the most stunning car crash you have ever seen. Think Mickey and Mallory Knox but without the psychotic murder spree. We’re lovely, we are. Massively damaged, but proper lovely.
Together we’re either going to change the world with our art, which is a terrifically exciting prospect, or we are going to kill ourselves and/or one another. We’re gonna try hard for the former.
He wants to fix me.
I want to get the truth out of him.
It will make a cracking story.