I don't remember my life, any substantial part of it, no matter how distant or how near to the present. I only remember random scenes of my life. Sometimes a scene is called to mind and I play it over and over and over and over again in my head, all day or all week, sometimes for months at a time. The scene today is my mom standing at the staircase with a suitcase. I walk in and she tells me she packed my stuff. I take the suitcase and walk upstairs my heart aching and my body wanting to collapse on the floor and cry. I don't let her see that. I go into my room and shut the door.
If I asked my mom what happened in this scene, she would probably tell a different story. What details I can't remember, I fill in - like her standing there and my taking the bag and going upstairs. I didn't even remember this scene until a year or so ago. She reminded me of it.
When I feel the call to write, I have a point and an end goal in the writing. Tonight, I don't. I'm only writing to ease my mind and "confess" something I may not tell anyone in real life. The other night, I drove around for over an hour looking for a liquor store that I wasn't terrified to enter. Going to HEB or a gas station is one thing - if I see someone I know, I grab some peanuts and a soda. But a liquor store... no hiding my intentions with that. Even so, I concocted a lie just in case: my friend needed me to grab some Malibu for her birthday party, she doesn't have a car, so I told her I could. Not a bad lie. I didn't have to use it. I found a shop where I knew I wouldn't see anyone.
Saturday night: me, a bottle of whiskey and Netflix. I guess I lost.
I usually write about how I was strong amidst the torrents of heart ache and unrelenting cravings for ungodly substances! I FUCKED UP. And guess what, I'M NOT DONE fucking up. I KEPT that bottle. It's in my closet right now. And when my sister goes to bed, I'm going to take two or three shots and go to sleep. I'll wake up and feel bad about it, but I'll do it again because I can't escape the loneliness. I can't escape the scenes that play over and over and over. Scenes that are bad enough because they happened to me, but worse because I CAN'T REMEMBER them fully. I carry with me the pain, the fear, the humiliation, the guilt, the longing of every tiny thing of my life. I carry it in feelings that I can't express because people need proof of a broken heart. It's not enough to say my heart aches - I must prove it. I CAN'T.
Truth weaves in and out of my head while the scenes play, but it's like a flaw in an otherwise flawlessly tragic movie. I'm not sure if I should pull the truth out and make it more than an interruption from the main event. Is this self-pity? No, it's self-hatred. If I pitied myself, I would be kind to myself. I would listen to myself, be patient with myself, give myself room to grow.
I don't have a happy ending right now. I'm just waiting to stop typing so I can go chug-a-lug.
Papa, please help me. I do want happiness. I want to love myself.
