There’s a wild beast inside me that I’m trying to lay to rest. It misses the days of excessive drinking and pill popping and lines of Coke off bathroom counters. It’s trying to make me believe that I had wonderful times, I was the belle of the ball, and my hair looked lucious and shiny. I can feel the beast coursing through my veins making my body itch- giving me a terrible urge to scratch my porcelain skin until I free it from within. My hair was never shiny and I was no belle at any bar. But titos on the rocks with a lemon was so good. Face cringingly good. And all the Xanax and all the Vicodin, I can picture my hand throwing the blue and white poison into my mouth. Swallow it all down with the beer I’m drinking with the titos. Talk to a few random strangers – that aren’t really strangers because I’ve seen them out at a bar or somewhere before. And one of them knows someone I know, somehow. So when I’m invited into the unisex bathroom to blow a line up my nose to wake up – I go happily. Trying to figure out how many more drinks I’ll have to pay for myself for the rest of the night.
And then I think, “i read somewhere that every time you black out it’s a sign of your brain being flooded with alcohol. And the more you black out, the closer you are to never waking up again..”
My hand sits on my collar bone and I feel alone and scared. The beast is gone. That thought was the equivalent to hitting the beast over the head with a shovel.
I hate it when the beast comes around. And I hate what I have to think about to make it go away.
Ahh. Sober life.