I believe in God. The Universe. My angels.
I feel my deceased father around me, even 32 years later. I talk to him periodically.
I have faith.
Ain’t no man or men that can change the shape my soul is in. – Avett Brothers
But I still have no idea what the fucking point of all of this is.
Why does my brain want me to self-destruct? The thoughts that percolate in there are dark sometimes, my virtual friends.
As my mom would say about me, I don’t handle stress well. This is true. What also is true, my entire family knows that I’m a bit off my wheel.
“Crazy Aunt Abbey.”
Yep. And honestly, as much as I hate to admit it, I am.
Might as well own up to that shit, am I right?
I pray to God & Company to assist me in this life, to help me to stick around and not swallow a cocktail of medications or hang myself from a nice oak tree in the park. I really don’t want to go, but fuck my brain when it starts going in that direction.
I am used to those thoughts, that I am weak and not worth much to anyone. It’s true that under stress, I crack like an old coffee mug. I’ve always been rather Eeyore-like, I hide it behind my sense of humor. I am not the only person who does that, it’s a survival tactic. It’s always worked for me, everybody loves a clown.
A sad clown, a fake-ass funny, happy fucking clown.
I pray with tearful eyes, please God, help me stay strong.
Help me stay alive.
