You can run, but you'll just die tired.

I don't know if we're running away or towards speed. It's always hanging in the back of our minds, even when we have none. We usually get about enough for a week binge, a long week, ending in a slow depression--our minds and bodies shot. We need to find a new doctor to keep it up, as his old one was not cutting it for his bipolar. As much as we love the amphetamine prescribed to him, he needs lithium to keep his bipolar in check. Without medication, he is basically sent into an emotional hell. Not that we help it with our "lifestyle" or whatever, but what can I say.

He keeps asking me about shooting him up with coke. I keep telling him maybe. The truth might be that I would, but what if that is the beginning of something horrible. Something that I won't be able to control, and it will be my fault, my gift to him. The gift I don't want to give. Worse, it could be immediate death. Those two thoughts dance around the question whenever he asks it. If neither of those things were a possibility, I wouldn't give a shit. If I didn't love him, I wouldn't care at all. But we are our own family, with our pet rabbit and our small apartment. Our tiny life. I don't want it to end. Or get worse.

It's okay right now, just how I like it. It'll always be precarious, but I can deal with that.

At least, I can right now.
- Lucy

Cocaine is like your birthday...

My birthday just passed, on the heals of a week long speed binge. We slept a bit, so it wasn't as psychotic as that sounds. It never seems psychotic anymore, anyway. It was not a good or a bad birthday, but a birthday none the less. 22 years. 6 years since a birthday passed sober. 6 years ago, when I loved the needle and it loved me, and we loved percocets. At 16, I deified myself and worshipped at my own alter, thinking I was somehow the exception to the rule.

This year, I waited for my boyfriend to return from a job at a baking factory, covered in grease, feeling guilty for "ruining" my birthday. It was okay. I wasn't phased at all. There were 60 more mgs for Sunday, when we would get back from my parents' home. No point being tweaked out in front of the parents, I'd rather be depressed, at least that would be excusable. We'd be fine, eat some good food, and play with the kitten--it'd all be fine.

Today, a week later exactly, doing bumps of cocaine as I work from home, and I realized this is how a birthday should feel--like a good coke high. It won't last long, but it'll feel good and right. That's why I'm writing again. I missed it, and this has got me back thinking about it.

BTW, I graduated college, early, with a 3.45, in case you were curious about why I stopped writing, I was studying.

Later, but sooner than a few years,
- Lucy