Once I’m in its grip, it will pull me all the way down. Placing weights upon all the wounded parts of me.
Succumbing is lying on the bottom of the Lake and looking up at the surface, aware of the world beyond the waves but not having the desire to leave the cold depths that drown me.
I didn’t expect you and was surprised by how easily you moved into my heart.
You spread your Sunshine about all the dark in my world.
You tell me I’m beautiful, and I can see in your eyes you mean it.
I lean into your chest, enveloped by your arms, and listen breathlessly with a Hope I thought I had lost as you tell me you choose me and you are not leaving.
To me, your heart is lovely and precious. I hold it gently and close to my own. When I listen to our beats mix, it begins to sound like birds singing, I am taken out of myself, and the gray fades away.
I am not sure where you came from, and it does not matter. You reopened the Universe within me and reminded me of the beauty of the Stars.
I saw a t-shirt that said, “Retired Blackout Artist.”
There are so many times I miss my old drinking self. I was a short, dark-haired lady with a tolerance for alcohol so high that I could drink an old school biker under the table. It was who I was, a persona I created for myself to justify the alcoholism in my head. I was the lady with a nice rack who would order two vodka martinis, dirty as her first drink at the bar. I thought she was funny and fun. I know the reality was much different. Double fisting martinis all night was not artistry, it was insanity.
Still, I mourn that person. I was her for 30 years. She was my alter ego, and she was fun. She was also my shield, my armor, a way to protect all the brokenness inside me from spilling out. I hid all that pain away behind her. Nobody wanted to see what was under the cocktail napkin and lip gloss warding off wine stains on my lips. I thought people wanted to see what kind of shenanigans I would offer up after five martinis and a bottle of wine in my belly. They didn’t. For those that love me, it wasn’t a fun ride. It was a scary-ass rollercoaster. Picking me up and chasing me down. Cleaning up the messes I left. Knowing one loose screw could derail the whole fucking thing.
I am sorry.
But even knowing all of this, I still miss her. With her, my penchant for the dramatic, my wild side was left unchecked. The freedom I felt from my otherwise regimented life was intoxicating in and of itself. It felt good. She helped me master the art of blacking out, of functioning in a haze. She was the one who assured me a shower and makeup would hide all the sins from the night before and the fact that I was still drunk when my alarm went off. It felt good. Until it didn’t. Yes, she took me to some crazy fun places. We saw a lot of things together. I thought she was my friend, but she didn’t really love me, I didn’t love me.
It’s been 406 days since I’ve heard from her. I miss her, but I wish her the best. Things with us were never really good, and she would have been the death of me. I learned a lot from her but I also hope I never hear from her again. I hope her retirement is going well. Mine is. Being without her is a struggle. I fought hard to hold onto her but sometimes it’s just best to part ways.
