New Life

I thought about it this afternoon. That moment. The moment when I would take a drink. I would fight it all day and then I would hold it to my lips and wonder what the hell I was doing. Lusting for the fire in my mouth that would separate me from the living in one instant. That dreadful moment when I knew I was subjecting myself to an evening of aloneness and isolation. I couldn't face the world after I took even a sip. It was my personal prison. That moment. It was so precious and precarious at the same time. The instant that my head told me to stay in the game while simultaeously fighting the voices that told me to obliterate reality. That I'd be just fine alone. And then I'd touch the rim and swallow. And I knew I was done. The fighting was over and I'd given in. One more time. One more fucking time. But I knew. I KNEW that tomorrow would be different. Tomorrow I could make it. I just knew it. Tomorrow would save me. And that tomorrow never came.

I'm always reading half a dozen books. Books are my emotional salvation. They take me to worlds imagined and unlived. Other people use television for their escape. I can't. I don't have the constitution for it. My visual acuity is honed by words on a page, not images on a screen. I knew I was going downhill in my alcoholism when I turned on the tv at five thirty every night and watched the WB until I passed out. When SouthPark came on, it was time to give up on the living and hope for death in my sleep.

I don't want to give up and pass out today, but I've started on the road to a new and terrible isolation. I know it in my heart. And I'm fighting it with a desperation I didn't know existed in me. I live very well alone. Without input or direction. Mostly, I want the world to go away and leave me be. But that's kind of not how it works. I have to show up for life on a day to day basis. That's what is expected of people. That you wake up and show up for what's in store for the day. But I tend to hole up with my books and fight the living. I'd rather be sucked in by the unreality of the story than create my own. And that frightens me sometimes.

I've been fantasizing again about disappearing into the wilderness of my soul. It's not always pleasant, but I'm mostly okay there. I know that wherever I go, I will take myself with me. I have this incredible fantasy that if I find the right place to hide, the world will just take me as I am and leave me be. That I'll find happiness somewhere quiet and worn. I am not afraid to be the crazy cat lady in the cabin in the woods. In fact, I kind of cherish that notion. But I'm more afraid that's not who I'm supposed to be. So I stay on top of life and show up when I'm supposed to show up and give kind words and help when I can. Knowing full well that showing up for other people is the only thing keeping me on track with the living.

I have this desire to hide right now. To disappear into nothingness. But that's not an option. So I trudge on. Hoping for brighter tomorrows. I'm not exactly sad, but more lost. And I've been taught that inspiration will come if I keep showing up for life. Hiding from it only leads to more discontent. I know THAT much.