Your Curiosity Killed The Cat 

You laughed like it was a joke. And I laugh with you because I’ve never given a hint that “bisexual” could be a term to describe me. But while you laugh at the possibility I could also be fond of women, I am left questioning my reality. 

I’ve never had a girlfriend, so I’m just confused

I’m in a relationship with a man, so I must be straight

I begin to wonder if my feelings are even valid… because you decided that being bisexual was just simple confusion, and not who I am. But I could tell you how I studied the flawless features of my best friend. I’d stare at her like she was the best thing on this planet and I loved spending time with her. Or I could remind you of the nervousness I felt as I gazed over my shoulder at my friend. We stood across the room from each other, changing into bathing suits, and I couldn’t help but wish she was as curious as I. As I turned back around, I told myself I didn’t have feelings for girls. It was all in my head and I denied how I felt until I was 22. I was afraid people wouldn’t believe me because I just didn’t fit the stereotype. 

I guess what I’m trying to say is…

I’m bisexual. Get over it. 

A Letter To My Falling Out

You came up to me in gym class, your arms folded and your brown hair dangling just above your shoulders. You seemed so confident and relaxed, surrounded by people you knew, but were strangers to me. There was a click and it felt like we had known each other our whole lives. There were no awkward conversations, everything just kind of flowed.

Summer came and we were attached at the hips. We bonded over writing and The Simms. Our hair and style brought us to the conclusion that we were twins, and we both wanted to be a doctor after graduating college. Wind blew our hair in crazy directions as we blasted 3OH!3 in your car, and danced like we weren’t driving down a major highway.

We went weeks without speaking once I moved to Delaware. The moment I sent a text or a Facebook message though, it was as if we talked the previous day. Nothing had changed. We were still close and I was thankful, because you were the very first best friend I found after leaving my hometown.

Now you are a ghost I no longer know; and if it were up to me, our lives would be different. We’d still be best friends, but you’re hung up on a grudge I don’t understand; one I think you’ll come to regret over time. If you’re somehow reading this, don’t get me wrong, I’m not being cocky, I just know who you are despite what you may think these days. It would be easy to just stay angry at what I think is unjust, but like I said before you cut me off:

No matter how much we fight, you will always be my best friend – my sister – and I love you. 

So whether it’s days or whether it’s years, you know where I am and I will always be there for you. I’m not saying I’ll have open arms to catch you in a hug – I will have colorful words to speak – but I will be there.

Sometimes, I Am Me

“How are you doing?”

The voice yanks me out of my own anxiety bubble. Hmm?

“You seemed down yesterday,” my group mate continued scribbling on the daily assessment sheet.

“Oh…” I poked my feet into the ground in a nervous twitch, “Ehh..yeah, I’m good.”

My lips find their way to the placebo coffee I always grabbed on my way into the program. It was a distraction from the empty room that morning. I hadn’t taken my Trazodone in three days, and anxiety was back to clawing at the base of my legs like a lost puppy. The walls were closing in around me.

In group therapy you’re suppose to talk about your problems, but I always felt bad when I talked about myself. I don’t want to explain the depressing history of my life because I hate the facial expressions people cannot control. When they hear of the things I’ve been through in only twenty-two years, they are baffled at how I managed to survive on my own. And the truth is…by a single thread.

Because being me, means my hands are shaking as the room fills up with people I don’t know, so I fill the silence with nervous habits of crossing my legs over and over again, or playing with my hair – poking at split ends. Sometimes I just freak out and I escape to the bathroom like I’ve always done as a kid.

Being me, means having mood swings and destroying everything like a fucking hurricane intent on leaving nothing but disaster behind. One moment I’m fine, and the next, I’m ready to pop your head like a balloon, because I’m just tired…

I’m tired of everything and everyone and sometimes I can’t even move. I dream of all the things I want to accomplish, while I’m sleeping through that time to do them. And I ask myself why I do this – because I know better – but it’s like my brain has decided to take the month off. So I roll with it. What else is there to do?

These medications have my head in a haze. I don’t even know if they’re working. I’m sitting on the floor, like I’ve always done, searching this plain room for an answer I know I’ll never find. And I can feel depression clawing at the brick wall that this Prozac has created in the past month. It holds off the true effects of the disease; I can now lose myself in depressing thoughts without feeling a damn thing. Is that a positive? I’m not sure anymore.

So now I’m simply going through the motions with little to no feeling at all. It’s a better change than feeling everything so intensely, but does that mean it’s helping? Or am I just making myself believe it does?

 

 

Sorry For My Absence

Its been a while since I’ve posted. Honestly, I felt like it would be better to give up this site. I wasn’t sure where this blog was heading, and honestly, I still don’t know. But I want to make it something. So this is my “Hey, don’t forget about me!” post. I’m going to work on one writing and hopefully start posting again. 
Yours truly.

Trust

Yesterday I went back to NA. It was terrifying at first. I sat, sipping on coffee, debating whether or not I really needed to be there. But everyone always says: If you’re thinking about going, you probably need to. So I decided to go; one meeting wouldn’t hurt.

As I listened to the first two stories, I became depressed. One guy had just left the Vines after trying to kill himself, and another woman expressed grief about an addict who OD’d two days prior. Why was I here? But the next speaker hooked me in. He spoke like a well-versed motivational speaker. I didn’t want it to end because his words were giving me hope; not only that I could get better, but so could any addict. The longer I sat in that room, the more hope and happiness filled me up. I felt a little bit better. Now I want to continue.

After sharing was over, an addict announced the handing out of chips. Lauren nudged me and told me to grab mine. This little girl was holding a silver, tin bucket filled with different colored chips. She fished out a white one and held it out. I couldn’t help but smile as I took it. 

“Thank you,” I whispered.

I turned the chip over and read the words: Just for Today.

It’s a small promise – to only stay sober today – and you don’t have to worry about tomorrow. 

I kept my chip in my hand the rest of the night; it felt like protection. Standing in the circle as we huddled close and said a few hopeful words, I felt understood. I didn’t see these people as addicts, I saw them as some twisted family. Everyone just wanted to get better, but they didn’t want to – or couldn’t – do it alone. And I’ve felt that way before.

Today is Trust.

Just for Today: I will decide to trust someone. I will act on that trust.

So I’m going to trust that NA will work. I’m going to trust myself to stick with it. I think that’s what I’m most afraid of – not trusting myself to work the program, because I decide that I don’t need it.

Popper Virus

A virus; slowly fighting its way into your system, it’s sleeping at first and it’s bearable. But once you slip, it’s like a scorned lover. I’ve kept the urge locked in a vault. No longer did I consider myself addicted to the past. I fought for a cure to this relentless hell – finding it in writing and music – but now I’m building an immunity.

I found myself sorting through ideas. How could I find some pills without allowing the people around me to know? What could I get my hands on? The weight I’ve placed on my delicate shoulders is shoving me into the ground, trying to bury me six feet under. Honestly, that’s where this problem would end.

But I’ve promised to not go back to that version of myself. I never liked her. She hid in purgatory and settled for routine. I’d like to blame the conversation topic for my struggles, but avoiding what I know won’t help. And honestly, it’s nobody’s fault but my own. I feel like I’m locked in a dark room, screaming to be let out. This is torture. But I guess I can fight it. Or I guess I have to.

I remember being called popper as I navigated seventeen. My desire to do better seemed to evaporate each time my friend brought a baggie of brownies with some white motivation. I’d take it happily and stuff it in my bag. For the rest of my days, I slacked in class, waiting for the clock to move hours ahead. 

It wasn’t even pot that drove me to pills, but instead, a driving need to escape a depression that I battled alone. Pills helped numb the pain. And I always grew up telling myself I’d never walk down this road. But addiction is a virus that sleeps during the day and wakes you at night. One time is just one time…until suddenly…it’s not. 

2 Weeks, 12 Hours

The room is daunting – hauntingly devastating – because I gaze at the padded chairs and I’m asking myself if I’m really here.

I am.

It feels like failure. But I keep reminding myself that this is a step in the right direction. The room is poorly lit, probably to set the mood, because bright lights are a deterrent in the eyes of the hungover. My hands are shaking on my knees as I settle in a spot towards the back. People pour into the small space, smiling the entire time. How could people be smiling as they walked into a meeting? Strangers approach me with comforting hugs. I’ll never forget the first woman who wrapped her arms around me.

“We hug around here. We don’t do that shaking hands.”

I was terrified. But everyone in the room made me feel accepted. There were better places for me to be on a Thursday night…but this was okay. I had to keep telling myself that, because if I didn’t, I might book it out of that building.

Halfway into the first speaker’s story, I realized my breathing had become strained. 

Calm down.

Panic attacks we’re nothing new; I just didn’t want it happening at a church in Philadelphia, during a Narcotics Anonymous meeting. 

I sat and listened to people share their stories of recovery. A few people spoke about cousins and parents they had lost to some overdose. Here they were, at a meeting, talking about their sadness like they were completely alone. How was tragedy suppose to be uplifting?

It wasn’t.

But as I thought about it, maybe we just needed a place to let go of our demons. Maybe this was a way to the cure.

NA. AA. These are not happy places. They are not where you want to find yourself at eight o’clock at night. But that does not mean there isn’t a purpose.

I was crashing on the couch; and I don’t mean ‘crashing’ in the sense that you’re staying the night at a friends place. I mean I had finally run out of cocaine after a five day binge. Cold sweats had my hands shaking and my brain couldn’t focus. I felt alive and dead at the same time. And all I wanted was more. I wanted to go back to swimming through the clouds.

But once the crash settled in – or maybe sanity found its way back home – I found myself asking:

“Why am I doing this to myself?”

The reason we keep buying more drugs is because the come down brings us deeper into a depression we’ve been trying to avoid. Of course we could stop. But why would you willingly twist your bones until they are nothing but ash?

“How long have you been sober?”

The question has me stumped for a moment. It’s like life came to a sudden halt. I hadn’t been paying attention.

“Two weeks,” I admit. And I slump deeper into my chair, thinking about the bottle of whiskey, waiting for me in my room.

Recovery vs Relapse