Some days all I yearn for is a beer. Something tall and dark, something Irish. I daydream about a bar I used to frequent in my early twenties, I was there nearly every night after work in the summers. I’d have a few drinks, half watching what was on the televisions behind the bar until it was well past time to drag myself off home to a life that I should have appreciated but very much didn’t.
I didn’t write much back then, not at all actually. I was too busy working fifty hour weeks and living life. Did I search for love back then? Sure. I’m always searching for love but up until half a decade ago I never found it. I sought adventure and noise, noise that would quiet the one ever present in my own head. It was never really quieted, but many times it was overpowered by the exciting, frivolous life I was living.
I drank mostly. In groups, in pairs, alone. I drank alone more often than not, mostly because my appetite and tolerance for alcohol far surpassed that of anyone else I knew. I oftentimes outdrank even most of my male friends, which I think impressed and disgusted them at the same time. Drinking was the only way I could escape from life. The only way I could be free. The only way I could be happy. Drinking silenced the insecurity, the irrational fears, the anxiety, the depression. Well, it silenced the depression for awhile and then it hit me full-force once I was done.
Some days I would dabble in other substances. Those are the days when I would write. I would think of the caterpillar from Alice in Wonderland, the Mad Hatter, the Mad Queen, the White Rabbit. I would think of that magical world I had loved since I was a child and wish I could be there. I would chase substances and try to get as intoxicated as I could in order to just catch a glimpse. Never did I find it in my waking moments, but my dreams were always colorful. Now I wish I would’ve written more of those dreams down. It seems such a waste to have kept them to myself all of those years.
I can’t remember the last time I had a colorful dream. I can’t remember the last time I dreamt at all. The medication prevents me from remembering them. I can’t say this is a bad thing, I have more nightmares than dreams anyhow, but just for once I would love to remember one in detail. Something I could write about. Something I could share with you. I just can’t.
The pain has been unbearable the past couple of days, sparks of it that leave me convulsing. I’m not one for doctors so I suffer in silence. Yesterday as I was picking up last minute items for my daughter’s birthday, the pain nearly had me on me knees, right there in the electronics department. Sharp, stabbing pains and I convinced myself this was it, this was how it was going to end- in an aisle of a store, on my knees, only a few hours short of an early birthday party for my oldest daughter. The pain passed but revisited me early this morning. I’ll make it to a doctor eventually.
I want to write something that moves you to tears, that has you reflecting on your own life, that has you wondering more about mine. I want to fill you with words that have you pulling out your drawing pencils and sketch pads, bringing my words to life- magical places pencilled down for me to escape to when it all becomes too much, and it often becomes too much. I want to write something that inspires you to respond, inspires you to create, inspires you to remember. I want to write something to fill the space that drinking left, I want to write something that makes me feel alive.
5 thoughts on “Alive”
This is a start. Good writing
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I agree! There are many things you’ve said that I feel. For me, writing can be secondary to my art/photography, but I do feel what you’re saying. I think how you write is excellent. X
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That’s so kind of you!