I just erased two hundred and fifty six words. I’ve been writing about the same thing, or maybe I should say the same someone for months. Almost a year in fact. I’ve been thinking, and having dreams, and nightmares about the same person as well. The talent in my eyes, and the voice in my head that jots down these thoughts as they come are more than this, and I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to see it.
I get drunk, so I don’t have to think about the mistakes I make. They’re not mistakes after all; it’s just I twist the knife in my back instead of pulling it out, and when I drink the wound is numb. I don’t care.
For someone who does nothing but care, the best feeling in the world is neglecting my intelligence, and that voice in my head. They can’t fuel my anxiety, or guilt. They can’t tell me I know better than this. When I drink, I don’t. Maybe this is how alcoholics are born, and you’re thinking, “stupid girl take care of yourself.” But, what you don’t see is that I am, as my organs are deteriorating, my mental state is stronger, and I’d trade a few days without these pressing thoughts and heartache for a few less years anyday. It’s okay not to understand. It’s insane, and I’ve never claimed to be less than crazy. The overthinking, the anxiousness burning, the frustration and irritation that comes from games no ones even playing are killing me quicker than the poison I’m ingesting. I love board games, but I’m bored with these games we’re not playing.
I’m tired, and I need a drink. I think to myself one more night, it’ll be fine. I think of excuses why I can’t do what you ask, but then I ignore my thoughts with actions I didn’t authorize, and I’m not this weak, but my brain can’t fight the feeling it wants even though it’s the worst thing for me. The reason I drink.