There are days when I feel alive. There are nights that keep me coming back for more. And there are those early mornings that force me to realize how badly I want to die. Except, where in the past I would court death, rattle those pill bottles and count how many little white circles it’d take to lull me to sleep; these days I just let the numbness wash over me and forget about life for awhile. If I could choose, I don’t know which would be better: the apathy that comes with the numbing sensation or the depression that sparks the intense need to see the inside of one’s eyelids forever. At least when you want to kill yourself, you know what you want, you’re feeling with a passion and intensity that is somewhat admirable. The numbness, well, that’s just most people on average day.

I’ve always admired the crazy ones. The people who live on the edge, who say what they mean and mean what they say, those gorgeous women sobbing in bathtubs filled with wine and rage, and those stylish messes of men who cut their fists breaking glass windows and girl’s hearts. Maybe my love for the dark corners of life comes from growing up surrounded by such dark people. The artists and musicians who live on the fringes of society, who live entirely in a world composed inside their heads, who live off disability because they can’t wake up in the morning and put on a suit and tie and pretend they don’t want to die. 

I was raised by a slew of the mentally ill: psychotic, schizophrenic, hardcore drug addicts and alcoholics. I love them with all my heart and soul. They are the reason I am who I am, why I do what I do, why I say what I say. They are the reason drumbeats align to the beat of my heart and guitar strings run along the length of my veins. They are the reason I stay awake for 50 hours at a time thinking I can change the world, if only I could find that one photograph I’ve been searching for my entire life. You know the one, the photo that captures the inside of what my head looks like when I’m feeling so manic I could pull out all my hair and scream. They’re the reason substance will always make me feel better. They’re the reason I’m so attracted to it in the first place. Its just not in my blood to not be the combined effort of everyone I have ever known.

This one goes out to the people who feel so on fire that they just can’t control it, it consumes them. And even if they could put it out, most days they wouldn’t want to. The ones who are who they are, without guilt, shame, apology or regret. The ones who refuse to live the sanitary, disinfected life so many have become accustomed to. The ones who admit that life is fucking messy and who aren’t afraid to get their dirty little hands even dirtier as a result of that mess. This one goes out to the people who don’t always want to be alive, who think life is utterly impossible sometimes, and who aren’t always okay . . .  and certainly don’t fucking want to hear that you think it will all work out someday.  Maybe its not going to work out. Maybe it just is what it is and we all have to live with it.

This one’s for you, the ones who keep me going, the ones who keep me burning alive.