I can't remember the last time I frantically searched for a sharp object in my sentimental clutter, or the time that I drove out into the middle of nowhere, searching for trees that I knew would end everything.
I remember the feeling, of madness and chaos and desperation,
but sometimes it feels like a feeling I never really felt;
only read or heard about.
But I do remember it.
And sometimes, in moments of desperation and chaos and madness, I have the urge to drive back to those secluded woods, just to make sure there are no crosses with floral wreaths dug into the dirt.
But I don't.
I drive to the familiar home I've made my niche, decorated with sticky noted "I love you's" and laundry on leather sofas, with extravagant floral wreaths hung on the brightly lit porch instead, and I find comfort in the fact that this is the place where I can finally rest my head.
So do things get better?
Well, yes and no.
Yes, I still drink alcohol,
but these days I sip it rather than shoot it,
and some days I'll take a few short drags of the cigarette I've been smoking on for the last few weeks,
but I don't chain-smoke them like I used to,


and these days, I always wear my seatbelt and get back "I love you too."