Anastasia

88'

He sat on the couch for what seemed like years in his head, unable to even flip the journal to read the first page. Even drinking wasn't helping at this point. He tried to forget her. He swore he was trying. But it was so hard to do when memories of her flash into his mind when he sees her honey-colored hair tangled in his shirts and or the way her sickly sweet perfume seemed to cling to his hoodies, no matter how many times he tried to get rid of it.

"Suck it up, you're a grown ass man." he breathed out, "Don't let a stupid ghost intimidate you." he chugged the last bit of scotch and adjusted his position on the couch, taking the first journal onto his lap, he flipped it over to the first page. 

10/12/1985

I was born creative. As a child I always created things; fantasy worlds and amazing stories, but when I grew up and got depressed one thing changed. I'm still just as creative, but now my mind comes up with endless ways to destroy myself and I haven't created anything in years.Its so hard coming home to a house that isn't a home at all. Its hard that after a stressful day, the last place I want to come is into the walls of my own house. I shouldn't feel more comfortable on someone's living room floor than in my own bed. I don't belong here, I never have.I see everyone around me moving forwards, improving. Depression consumes all my life, and it depresses me more feeling like the obly one that doesn't know where to go, where am I. I'm not moving, perhaps because I'm a failure, or I am not strong enough to change. It's like every single person is moving, just moving, but not me. And I don't know I can do this anymore. I wanna give up... I give up.

Maybe its all Ricks fault I feel like this, but then again I don't wanna be one of those girls that blames their ex for all the negative things that have happened in their lives. Do I hate him? Yes. If I saw him again would I kill him? A definite yes. Years of abuse, sexual misconduct and forceful action can do that to you. But that doesn't define me, that does not define who I am or what I am going through at the moment. That only defines certain insecurities that only make up 5% of my problems. I wasn't as fucked up before I met him. Sure I was 'problematic' and 'sick' and on 'medication' due to my 'mental health', but he...he resurfaced them all and, if it were possible, manipulated me into thinking they were more than what they appeared to be. I am good for a while. I'll talk more, laugh more, sleep and eat normally. But then something happens. Like a switch turns off somewhere and all I am left with is the darkness of my mind. But each time it seems like I sink deeper and deeper and I am scared, terrified that one day I won't make it back up. I feel like I am gasping for air, screaming for help but everyone just looks at me with confused faces wondering what I am struggling over when they're all doing just fine and it makes me feel crazy.

What the hell is wrong with me? 

He quickly shut the book and tossed it onto of the coffee table and held his head in his hands, "Fuck." he sighed and pulled out his cellphone and called the one person that would help him rationally go through with this. 

"Hey,"

"Whats up man?" Duff familiar voice was up beat on the other line. 

"Could you, umm drive over to Ana's house? I'm here, I need you to help me with something." 

Duff went silent, "Are you okay?" the last time Slash had called Duff from Ana's house asking for help hadn't gone that well. Duff had come into the trashed house and burnt out bonfire in the front yard and Slash, high out of his mind, staring at the burning pieces of paper. 

"Yeah, I just need you to help me read something." 

"Reading? You need help with reading?" Duff laughed

"Yes." Slash's tone was serious

"Umm," Duff's laughter died out, "Yeah okay, I'm just dropping off the groceries at home, but I'll see you in an hour."