~*~*~

Peace was an illusory dream for one such as I.  It was something that I had coveted for years, yet at the same time, knowing the futility of such a desire, I still hoped for the possibility.

Not possibility that hope could still be found in the dark recesses of my life, but the possibility that there was a possibility of hope.  I snickered under my breath.  Did that make any sense to you?  I'd be surprised if it did.  Sometimes it didn't even make sense to me.

I've walked the edge of sanity for so many years that I've forgotten what real peace is.  I long for it, yet, were it to come to me, would I recognise it?  I've searched for release through drugs, sex, booze.  Anything for that sweet release, for that blessed oblivion.  I denied myself nothing.  But that's what I got in return as well.  Nothing.

Hope can destroy a man.  Her bittersweet pain can drive a man insane, and yet keep him sane. 

I don't know where I stand. 

Cheap.

Murderer.

Sinner.

I've had these words flung at me almost my entire life.  I laughed mirthlessly; didn't they watch those cheesy afternoon talk shows?  No matter how clichéd, grains of truth remained.  Didn't they know what I did masked a deeper inner need?  But I forget; nobody cares.

I've always searched for rest in others.  I didn't know of any other way.  The adage of finding yourself first before achieving any sort of stability in relationships was lost on me.

I reached breaking point, of course.  (Though I pride myself on the fact that few could have made it so far – with my kind of lifestyle – and not be six feet under the ground.)  One drink too many, one dose too much.  Whoops. 

I ended up taking a "vacation", at a "health spa".  (Well, if that's what those tight-assed people choose to call it, more power to them.)  For those who still don't know what I'm trying to get at, I was admitted into a fucking sanatorium.  Y'know, that's the place where people go to recover after some serious illness or whatever, I really couldn't give a rat's ass.  

So, I ended up stuck in a place where rich bastards (and let's not forget bitches) went to recover after their nervous breakdowns, etc.  How I hated them.  I spent almost six months in that hellhole.  Ten weeks of detoxification.  Then another 14 weeks of going to AA meetings, to psychiatric evaluations every other day, and warding off rich, disgusting, fat women who thought I was just "too-too beautiful".  They patted my face, stroked my hair, and touched me in places I won't mention – not to spare your ears, mind you – rather, to save myself from having to relive those horrendous memories.  ARRGGHHH.

I almost wished for the good 'ol days of Estet, where all they did was brainwash and torture you.  Hah.  Almost. 

Gods, how I hated that place.  The thoughts that flowed through those nauseating people made me lose my already waning appetite.  I didn't even feel up to playing my usual games.  It just didn't seem worth it.  I mean, those people couldn't be more fucked up than they were, there was just no point to messing with their minds.

I hated the place, but it was the best time of my life.

It's where I found my peace.

~*~*~

What?  No, no, I haven't gone off the deep end.  Just the opposite, as a matter of fact.  Melancholic thoughts aside, I don't think I've ever been happier.

And as trite and hackneyed as it sounds, it is not every day you find the other half of yourself.

~*~*~