A Million Little Pieces

I read the book after it was revealed that some of it was exaggerated. Had very little effect on my appreciation of the tale, as knowing it was inspired by real events was enough for me. I am in no position to begrudge someone their dramatic license.

Today was a shit day in every sense of the word. I wallowed, I self-loathed, I regretted, I longed, I missed terribly, and I just couldn't fucking deal. The only thing that keeps me from really losing it is knowing that I have no one to blame but myself. No one. In moments of finger pointing, I feel differently, but in the end, I just made some fucked up choices that got me here. What is worse is knowing that I am not the only one dealing with pain and hurt and sadness. I caused that upon others. Fuck, I hate that. I hate myself right now.

Turns out, there are new lows. How fantastic to know that. I can feel worse tomorrow than I did today, but perhaps, I might also feel better. That hope is that one day soon, I'll have a better handle on my life, and it is all I have at the moment.

I couldn't face my family today. I hate that feeling. I hate feeling this way, and yet. And yet, I have no one to blame. Is there anything worse than being left to hold the bag of shame alone? Not that I am aware of. I am pretty sure that most of what I believed to be real was all a big fucking distraction. One in which I played a larger than life role -- hell, was probably driving the bus.

Egads. And I have too much at work to deal with. I am hired for a service that I need to provide tomorrow. I couldn't do it this weekend, so tomorrow looks to be a 20 hour day. Fucking righteous. I would give or do anything to feel real again.