A Diary Entry - Before I Tear the Page Out (and Fucking Burn It)

The sleeping pills whisper at me – “take me, take me, take me – you won’t sleep without us” – and I’m listening to them

– though I know they are bad for me –

but they’re so much better than methamphetamine and benzodiazepines –

Excuses, excuses, and using slightly flawed reasoning –

And excuses, and excuses –

I have myself fooled – and I do it like a motherfucking champion

…and the massive amounts of alcohol I consume every day is worlds better than the abuse I took from my former boyfriend – I escaped him –

without him fucking killing me -

Why can’t I have just a few glasses or a bottle or two every night (?) –

To calm my nerves – to end the day – to relax like other adults do, without concerns of addiction (?)

It seems I’m not sad anymore – not really –

I’m not sad anymore –

and I’m doing the best I can to understand that is okay – and it scares the fuck out of me

– but it is progress – did I mention I’ve quit meth – drug sober for years now

Former drug addicts don’t earn multiple college degrees – but I did, and I have them –

so maybe I can have a few fucking glasses of wine every night –

it’s a reward – and I fucking deserve it –

Reasons, reasons, excuses, and reasons -

Have I already mentioned I quit Xanax and Klonopin on a single day –

No more, no more, no more – and I did that –

I was bedridden for 19 days and I fucking wanted to die –

and I almost did

So, yeah – I might frequently have to vomit before I go to bed –

before taking the sleeping pills – did I mention they whisper (?) –

In 2019 I quit smoking cigarettes (and all other things) – 1 to 3 packs a day for 32 years –

Doesn’t that count for fucking something (?) –

Fuck – I know I drink too much – but haven’t you heard my reasons – haven’t you understood my excuses (?) –

Did I mention I used to be a meth addict (?)

I lost 6 years of my life - doesn’t that fucking count for something (?)

_____

“Yeah, I hear you”, my psychologist repeats.

She looks down at the notebook of paper on her lap and she rubs her eyes again – as if it’s a habit

“You can do this” – she whispers – “I’m here for you” -

She looks at me motheringly – or lovingly – I’m not sure which – and am not sure if I know the difference -

“But I fucking can’t”, I tell her, “I just fucking can’t – I’m not strong enough”

She says something more – …and I barely hear her as I exit the room and the building for the pub two blocks away -

I already know (I go there often) they offer my favorite bottle

_____

“Leave the bottle”, I say as I pull up a stool (The Doors are playing on the jukebox) – and the bartender leaves it.

He knows my credit is good – because he’s known me for years – I ain’t a fucking bum – I can pay my fucking alcohol tab

_____

My psychologist closes her office blinds – it’s the end of the day

“Maybe next week (?)”, she whispers, as she puts my (thick) patient file into the cold, and grey, and metal cabinet…,

she files it alphabetically among the files of others not getting better –

but I’m trying. Even if I’m failing, I’m fucking trying – I really am –

I promise – I really am…

Photo: Jimmy Broccoli.