Hey, Miss J!

I’m not even sure what to say right now. I’m racing through my chore list tonight… all because I want to be able to write something… anything.

I’m beginning to feel an itching sensation inside my skull.

It’s hard to explain… but it’s powerful. It’s a compulsion. I want to put my hands down and write something.

Maybe speaking to my dad tonight was a mistake. His words were running together, which makes me wonder if he’s drunk or high… Maybe both? I’ve no clue. I do know that he can’t come to this city and the same places he used to go when seeking coke.

They don’t have a car over there.

He can’t go “run the streets” as my aunt calls it. He’s not able to run to the liquor store and waste his money on alcohol. However… he’s somehow getting a hold of cigarettes.

IDK. Maybe his ‘buddy’ next door to him gave him a few beers. Honestly, a friend who gives you addictive substances that might kill you… they’re not really a friend. My dad had maybe 1 good friend about 4 years ago. The dude was closer to my age though. My dad’s close to 70, but he keeps befriending guys who are 30-40 years younger than him.

That one friend… was trying to encourage dad to quit smoking. He cared about him and tried to help him. Though… once he kicked the habit, he and my dad seemed to… part ways.

I can’t imagine what it must be like… when you seek comfort in drugs and surround yourself with other people just as messed up if not more than you are. How lonely is that?

Even when intoxicated and under the influence, my dad talks about how happy he is that we talk. And it bothers me… because I know if he doesn’t stop, he’s going to kill himself. I want to cut off all contact again, but I can’t… not to him.

The rest of them though? Yeah. Can toss them like my old socks.

I remember my first cigarette. I think I’d just turned 21 maybe? Because I doubt I could have done that when I was 18. I kept struggling to light it. A sudden wind picked up about four times when I was trying to light… Blew out four matches.

When I finally lit it, I took a drag and started coughing and choking like there was no tomorrow. After that, I tossed the pack and left my shirt in the basement to air out. One puff and everything stunk. I smelled like I hung behind a tailpipe and my tongue tasted like I’d been licking garbage.

3 days later, the entire basement stunk from the shirt.

From ONE puff.

I’ve no clue how people keep going past one.

Oh… and my first cigarette was a Winston.

Nasty business.

I have my nighttime reading to do, caring for the furball, then tidying up this office. I’m going to set my alarm back a bit. I want at least 30 minutes to write something. I’m starting to have ideas again… which is good.

I was worried the meds had stopped all that. I’ve read that meds to treat depression and bipolarism end it.

Are all creative people suffering from mental illnesses? I don’t know.

If so – not too many of us are willing to admit it.

~J. Lyst