all scrambled up
lack of action is an action all on its own
Content warning for substance abuse and bulimia, including some fatphobic language.
Today I opened up the current draft of my memoir and ended up deleting much of it. I still haven’t nailed down the voice, and it’s frustrating me to no end. Why is writing to myself so much harder than sharing a traumatic essay on the internet? Maybe I think the stakes are higher. I have to remind myself that there were whole years when I didn’t write a word. I should be proud of my progress, see it as a stepping stone to the future I want.
Trust yourself, urges my inner voice. Or at least trust the process.
The problem is the ambiguity of the process to begin with. (And no, I don’t trust myself either.)
The reason I’m miserable is because I’m always comparing myself to this idealized version of me who writes novels in one swoop and juggles projects with ease. But what if I’m wrong by assuming that version of myself is even real? What if they died a long time ago? Do I need to hold a funeral for my fucking dreams?
hesitant
I want to quit my part time job and focus on writing and podcast producing. With my backpay and monthly Social Security benefits, I should have quite a few months of security before me, with odd income from subscribers and publications trickling in. Maybe I can even become a piano teacher at last.
The time isn’t going to appear until I make room for it.
I need to initiate my dreams into reality. No one else can do this. In the end, my own opinion should outweigh others’ when it comes to making decisions about my life. I’m the one who has to experiences the repercussions of my choices. Mine is the only voice I’ve ever heard inside my head. Not God, not authority. My inner voice.
Why not let myself listen to it?
I’ve been working on a new podcast with a longtime internet friend. At first I was hesitant to commit even more time and energy, but now I lose hours in the editing zone. It’s so good to remember this side of me still exists.
This resurgence of creativity causes other possibilities to pop into my head. Applying for a residency. Taking classes. Entering more contests. Going to more community events.
Easy there, cautions my inner voice. One thing at a time. You want to avoid burnout, yes?
My stomach growls and I think I should eat something, except I ate a lot of animal crackers earlier—half the tub—and told myself I’d skip dinner instead of purging. (Which, I guess, is a type of purge itself.)
I’m always shocked at my body’s ability to forgive past sins.
short leash
I can’t remember when I relapsed on Benadryl this time. It’s probably written down somewhere, but I’m too ashamed to look for it, knowing it would just make me even sadder for what I wasted.
How many times do I have to tell you? sighs my inner voice. It wasn’t a waste at all.
Let me guess: next you’re going to tell me that relapse is part of recovery, I scoff.
My inner voice doesn’t answer this time, leaving me to contemplate the statement I just wrote. I don’t know what I believe anymore, just that I’m sad and tired and addicted and alone.
An idea to go to a meeting pops into my head, but then pops right out again; haven’t I tried enough times to know it isn’t for me?
I know this city has lots of people similar to me. The problem is finding them and initiating friendships. I’d do more of that if I wasn’t incapacitated much of the time. Who would rely on me?
The thing is, I am reliable. I am friendly. I do initiate things. I’d just do more of it if I weren’t so fucked.
It makes me sad to think about my potential because I know the only person holding me back is myself.
I want to publish memoirs. I want to live alone in a small house where I can have the piano I’ve always wanted. I want to do book tours and crash with friends in their cities. I want to travel the country on a motorcycle. I want to throw dinner parties. I want mentors. I want intimacy. I want to have fun.
Instead, I’m stuck on a short leash implemented by none other than myself.
Is this what I wanted? What will it take to convince me to get help?
The thing is, all I want when I’m high is to get higher.
out of reach
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Today I’ve had no energy or will to leave the apartment even though I need groceries soon.
It’s because you’re not eating and doing drugs, remarks my inner voice, which I ignore.
I’m on the balcony watching my cat watch a bumblebee. Every now and then he meows and licks his chops. Like he’d know what to do with a bee if he caught one. It comes close enough for him to swat at it with his paw. Offended, the insect takes off in search of another balcony. Fang sneezes.
I feel guilty for sitting around all day. I talked to a friend on the phone, edited a video, and cleaned out my closet. I washed my towels and vacuumed. I ate multiple times. I smoked. I did my piano exercises. So why the fuck can’t I relax?
All I want is to exist in space without feeling guilty. I can’t even imagine it.
Everything has consequences, and lack of action is an action all on its own. I’m guilty because I know I could be doing different, better things. In my eyes, I’m not reaching my potential. Somewhere, someone is surely disappointed in me.
I take five Benadryl and congratulate myself for not taking ten. I want to knock myself out and wake up to tomorrow already. Then I remember that I’m doing the podcast Saturday mornings now. Fuck. What am I going to talk about? How honest will I let myself be?
Lately—since I’ve been using DPH again, to be real—my brain feels all scrambled up. Words stubbornly stay out of reach, and I fear I’m making myself look stupid. Am I looking for permission to ruin my life? As guilty as I feel doing nothing, I also feel guilty for wasting my privilege, my potential.
How can I care so little about myself as a person and also be unable to stop thinking about myself? It’s honestly gross.
tightropes
There’s a a rare breeze on the balcony where I sit writing all this, high on allergy medication. I want to believe things can get better. I’m aware that I could die at any minute, either of cardiac arrest or overdose or suicide. Yet I keep going.
My chest feels like it’s about to drop through my body and onto the porch beneath me. The loneliness is excruciating. Yet I’m the one that chose to keep secrets.
I want someone to see how I’ve been suffering and offer me a path to salvation. I now see why teenaged me was so affected by their faith; it seemed like the only way out of the dark recesses of their soul.
What is a soul, anyway?
I’m wearing a bikini top in spite of my body hangups; it’s almost a hundred degrees and will stay that way until it rains on Thursday. I massage my right eyelid with a single pointer finger. When I pull it away, there is a light dusting of metallic slate eyeshadow coating my fingerprint. I’d forgotten I was wearing any. I felt like trying a new color today, shimmery gray as opposed to the dusky ash I usually wear—if I wear anything at all. These days I stick with tinted SPF moisturizer and several coats of mascara. Eyeliner a few times a week, a cat eye that I agonize over and still never turns out symmetrical.
I miss being pretty.
Right now I am thin but not pretty, and thin is never thin enough. What do I really expect from all this? If it’s to weigh little, then how little? If it’s to reduce need, how little can I need before I’m dead? These are the tightropes I straddle in this ridiculous existence that is my life.
I look down at my outstretched legs, recently tanned from walking downtown. They could be a little less chunky.
Tomorrow I need to seriously work on my Substack. Work on some writing. Maybe respond to that one message. I’m the worst. All this freedom and what do I do with it? I waste time—however much of it I still have.
My stomach fat bulges and I am upset. See, this is why I can’t create anything—the stupid stomach fat. On my tombstone, I wonder how many pounds I will have lost and gained and lost again in the space between my birth and death. What a legacy.
fragile and free
One night, I take the rest of my pills without counting. The next morning, I still feel high. My body feels fragile in the way it felt when I was drinking to black out every night. I suppose what I’ve been doing this time isn’t much better.
For now, at least, I feel free. Free to spend my evening hours working on projects or even just reading for fun. Free to have conversations without forgetting what someone was saying every 30 seconds and feeling guilty about trying to cover it up. Free to make plans and not factor in when I’ll be able to get high.
I wish there was someone in my family who would relate to me. There’s a reason the people I feel safest around are people who use drugs. I think the people who use substances to cope are the same people who see past the world’s veneer of normalcy, see it for how it really is.
These people know there’s no going back.