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So I've moved. Finally. It took me a year, and a loss of pride, but I have moved back to the Twin Cities. The reason I say loss of pride is because the only reason I was able to afford it is my ex. He's insisted to pay to get me settled into my apartment.

$150 Security Deposit
$150 Non-refundable Pet Security Deposit
$375 Additional Security Deposit
$375 First month's rent

Granted, these are all halved. I moved in with a chick, Allyson, who hung out with Patrick a lot before I moved up here and he started dating Disa....


I thought it was all going to be great. Well, before the break-up. It was perfect. I was dating the man of my dreams. He didn't care about the scars. He cared about me. As a person. He didn't think I was fat. I was the perfect size. He likes my curves. So he was going to get me up here at the beginning of summer, and I could share an apartment with Allyson. When she moved out in September, he'd move in. It would be like we were married. Our own little apartment in the city. Me, my boyfriend, and my cat, Cinder. My friends would all be close as well. The plan was so perfect.


WHAT THE ******** WAS I THINKING????


The only perfect thing about that plan is how perfectly stupid it is!

Patrick and I had clashing opinions on alcohol. If and when I drink, it's rarely. My parents were/are alcoholics. It ******** me up. I don't want to become like them. I don't want my children to go through that s**t. Patrick's mother is an alcoholic. He loves to drink. "To kill the pain." Bullshit. Since I met him and fell in love with him...he's become an alcoholic. I should have known it would never work....


So my perfect plan didn't work out. He still got me up here. I should be happy right? I would think so.

My room-mate lies to me. Talks about me behind my back. How do I know? She's ******** stupid enough to leave her AIM windows up when she leaves. So I read them. She thinks it's wrong that I feel so bitter towards Patrick and Disa. It's wrong that I do not want Disa in my apartment: not even when I'm gone. Tell me, what's so wrong about that?

Disa is the reason Patrick left me. They were holding hands and cuddling before he even broke up with me. Outside of work, Patrick spends his every waking hour with Disa....why would I want her in my home? I wouldn't, simple as that.


Is that really wrong?


Didn't think so.


The up side, I have found a job. Sales. Pretty much a door-to-door vacuum salesman. Well, sales woman. I have the potential to pay Patrick back and have money left over...by the end of July. Maybe if I pay him back, I can regain some of my pride. But I doubt it.



Up until a couple days ago, I have been very...manic. Severe mood swings like you wouldn't believe. Violent aggression followed directly by deep depression. Only to get the violent aggression again. Very little laughter or anything in there. It was scary. I was scared of what I might do, not only to myself, but to others. The image of wanting to beat my ex with a baseball bat until he's on the ground, until is head splits open, until his body is so ******** disfigured you can't even tell it was him.... They're not ******** normal!!!!!


I'm...better. I guess you could say that. Better. But not by much.

I bought a new packet of box cutting razors before. I've never used them before. They're about double the thickness of the ones I've used in the past. They now sit next to my deodorant, in the bathroom medicine cabinet. I see them every morning. And I can't stop thinking about them throughout the day. I want to cut my skin open. Make myself bleed. Perhaps in the living room, at a time when Allyson might walk in. Make her scream at the sight.

Then again, if she calls the cops, or paramedics, or anyone in that type of position - I could get locked up. Protective custody. Mandatory hospitalization. That bullshit. But what better way to make her pay for the way she treats me? Backstabbing. Lazy. I've been the one taking out the trash and keeping the dishes done, the kitchen clean. She hasn't done s**t. Well, she's done her boyfriend, but not much else.


For some reason, the area I want to cut is the inside of my elbow, on my left arm. I'd do it. But my boss and coworkers would ask questions. You just don't wear a long-sleeved shirt in 90 degree weather after you've been wearing short sleeved shirts. You just don't.



I think I've vented enough. I know it's long. I congratulate anyone who's actually read the whole thing. Goodnight.