l1vingdeadgurl

The sky is weird today. I started my drive in and it was sunny, so much so I had to rifle through my car to find my sunglasses. I don't remember my drives in or out of the city these days, so I found myself knee deep in a thick fog before it dawned on me to remove my sunglasses to see what was in front of me. My panic attacks have returned with a vengeance, no doubt due to the use or more specifically, the abuse of drugs I have been indulging in as of late. The fog was suffocating me, not in the traditional sense, but in my anxiety ridden mind, it was closing in on me, heightening my claustrophobia and making it difficult to breathe. I pulled over on the off ramp and got out, walking in a zombie-like state to the rear of the car and knelt down, vomited, hyperventilated, and with shaking, weak knees observed the audience that had collected. A hand gesture to signal I wasn't dying, not this time, and I got back in my car. I should have expected this much, the panic started last night, leaving my night even more sleepless than usual. The insomnia brings on the panic and it goes around, until I usually find myself in the emergency room being fed intravenously sedatives to bring down my racing heart rate.
I sit here at my desk and wonder, how he will know when I die? I feel it coming, some black shadow of doom creeping in the frame, just around the edges, but making a steady progress in clouding the picture. The thought that he just might not care crosses my mind too. I am astonished in myself, at how I let someone, another human being like myself, have such a firm grip on me, my heart and my entire being. When he was around, I never gave much thought to what would happen if he just decided to disappear. Although it seemed entirely possible, he never struck me as the type to not say anything. He promised he would say goodbye, or give me the opportunity to say it to him, and he lied. My judge of character is clearly flawed.
So I walk around, disembodied from myself, like a shell that operates only for the purpose, or for the pleasing of others, but not under my own will. I write these musing's, these stupid, pointless words, hoping that maybe he didn't disappear entirely, and that he really does care and maybe he will read this and give me a sign that he is fine. I am disappointed every day and am reminded of my friends strict lecture on the definition of insanity. Doing the same thing over and over expecting a different result. I know this not only defines insanity but defines me as well. I haven't figured out if that bothers me yet. I guess the pain gives constant reminder that he did exist, and that's better than the alternative.