There is a pernicious thought I have.
Credit card statement lands – I’m nearly maxed out. Maybe time I stop putting things on credit, but I’ve no income.
I think about the debt I’m in – been plunged into in the space of six months. Fucking bipolar. Fucking illness. Fucking me.
I think about the debt I’m in and a familiar thought comes and comforts me like an old friend. I’ll be dead soon. A long life is not for me, some day soon I’ll take my life so why worry? All this is just numbers.
I thought the same when I was pouring money into the gambling sites. Numbers, it’s all just numbers, idiot counters, plastic tokens of no regard. All means nothing in numbered days. Why worry, why worry over life, worry and life are only the concerns of the living.
It’s a bad thought. I know it’s a bad thought.
But it’s scary, the things I do and have done and am yet to do, the thought and memory of being left surrounded once more by broken glass and blood, to try to pick myself up and dust myself off. This siren comes, a cruel comfort, part hate and part despair and all fear and says shh, shh, it’s OK. Just as this chaos is without cause so it will one day, finally, be without consequence.
I know it’s a bad thought. It’s a bad thought and I’m nowhere near that place. It’s a bad thought, a tiresome thought; but for all I know it shouldn’t, it comforts me.