I don't have much time to write new journal entries....
Now that there is people I know that read my journal, im hesistant to post entries that I had originally.

But frankly...

I don't give a damn anymore...

.....................

old:

That's the downside to being sick, no one really knows until something big happens to tip them off. No one knew I was falling apart until I came crashing down. Then piece by piece the puzzle fit together. And they all thought, "So she wasn't kidding, that’s what she meant."

I'll start off by saying I am all right. Physically, I'm ok. And I am not proud of what I have become. And if I could start over again it would be different. But the past is just that. And I can't change it. All I can do is replay the events here, because even the bad memories are important to remember.
Every day has been a further slide down hill. And every time I wake it has become harder and harder to pull myself out of bed. But I have.

I knew what I was doing, but I didn't care.

He kept telling me he loved me, all night long. We werent together then but it was like he knew something was wrong. That he was worried about me.

We left to go out, he came with me to see how Justine and them were doing. We smoked up. It had been three months, exactly. The last time I had smoked up was the day Carey died and it seemed fitting. And I took three hits, three too big and three too many considering. They didn't ask me if I had taken anything else. They didn't ask, so I didn't tell them -- about the pills, about the fact that I could barely walk when I climbed into the car.
It took three minutes before I couldn't see straight, four before I couldn't talk. Five and I was out of it completely. All I remember is him asking me if I was ok and then trying to shove a drinking straw into my mouth. I couldn't breathe, I remember that. He tried to have me eat something and I choked on it. I remember touching my throat and him forcing water into my mouth. And I remember vomiting. I knew it was too much to mix, but I didn't care. It didn't matter.

I had an overdose of barbiturates, a combination of: oxycontin, valium, hydrocodone, and muscle relaxants. The weed didn't help.

He told me he would always take care of me, that every thing would be ok. He tried to talk to me, but I wasn't making sense. I only remember him telling me my eyes were the bluest he had ever seen. "Why aren't your eyes always that blue? " And I remember mumbling that they only looked that way when I was first waking up or when I had been crying. I felt like I was doing both.
He kept telling me he was sorry. He was sorry that I was so sick, he didn't understand. How was he supposed to know? He didn't have any idea what was going on. He wasn't supposed to take care of me and either way I didn't let him. But he held my hand and told me he was sorry. And he held my hair and rubbed my back while I tried to get enough air in my lungs to keep breathing.

My body had no tolerance. I passed out in his arms on the bathroom floor. But my lungs are still sore, my stomach and throat ache. I'm always dizzy and can't see straight.

This wasn't the first time, and it certainly wasn't the last.

As the orders of my parents, I keep going to the doctors, keep having blood tests. They don't know what is wrong with me.

I do.

I am doing it to myself.

Everyday I wake up in a panic, more disempowerd and weak. I can actually feel my insides destructing. To quote Leanne
" Sometimes the physical pain feels better than the emotional pain".

I wasn't trying to die, I just didn't care. Does that make sense? I didn't even think about it. I wasn't thinking about anything. I wasn't thinking about it being too much for me to take, I wasn't thinking that my liver could shut down, or that my lungs could collapse, or that my heart could go into cardiac arrest. That taking these drugs with alcohol or other drugs could kill me. I didn't think about any of those things. I remember him squeezing my hand in the car because I couldn't focus on his face and he did the same thing then. We didn't say anything.
I didn't even think about him when I was doing it. I wish I had. I wish I could take it back, because I am not proud. It was disgusting and stupid and unlike myself. And it changed the way people look at me. No one knew, I didn't even. But I did it.
And I can't stop.