relapse

You can learn a lot about a person just by looking through their trash. You could learn what they like to eat, what products they use, and what secrets they hide. You’d learn a lot about me if you took the time to sift through my trash. Bottles. Bottles and cans, strewn haphazardly inside the recycle crate. 

It started with wine. Just a glass every couple of days, enough to feel warm inside, just like my mama used to have to help with her blood circulation. Sometimes, I’d throw in a beer to shake things up a bit. Every couple of days slowly merged into every other day into every day. Wine became soju became brandy became rum. One glass became one mug became one bottle. 

I don’t have a problem. I’m in control, I swear. This is the only thing in my life I can control. What I drink, how much I drink, when I drink. All of these things are within my reach. I get to decide. These choices are all mine to make. 

My head is screaming, my veins constricting, my hands shaking, my bones throbbing. The panic is rising as the day goes on and the tremor in my hands doesn’t cease to remind me that I haven’t had a drink yet today. Soon, I reassure myself. Almost there. My skull pounds in response. 

I want to drown. I want to forget. I am lost and the alcohol is sucking the life out of me. It’s ruining my liver, my thoughts, my sanity. But I can’t stop. Because after one sip, the edges soften a little and the world blurs.  Colors dull and my mind is hazy as I lose grasp of reality. 

I wake up in the middle of the night, sweating, the memories creeping back in. I want to tear myself open and pinpoint exactly what’s wrong with me. So I don’t have to drink, to feel, to hurt anymore. It’s almost unbearable–the real world, the people, the endless judgment. 

Maybe I’m self-destructive, but I call this coping. I call this an outlet. I call this release. I call this my crutch. And I don’t know how to admit it, but I don’t know how to live without it anymore. 

So go ahead and remind me that I’m sinful. Go ahead and count how many bottles  I throw away in a week. Go ahead and scoff. Go ahead and look down on me. Go ahead and pity me. 

But before you pass me by and judge me, I ask this of you. I ask that you look through my mind and sift through the thousands of irrational thoughts built up from years of abuse. I ask that you experience my triggers, my panic attacks, my paranoia. I ask that you go back and check three times whether or not the garage door is closed. I ask that you tap your fingers restlessly, endlessly, maddeningly as you await an unknown response. I ask that you fight back the bile rising in your throat because you can’t keep your meal down. 

I ask that you talk to the demons inside me, eating me alive. I ask that you lie wide awake at night, tossing and turning, unable to fall asleep for fear of the dark. I ask that you stand inside an elevator, suffocating because your claustrophobia has you convinced that the walls are closing in. I ask that you withstand the sting of your nails digging into your skin, trying to prevent another episode. I ask that you resist the urge to pull out your hair as your heart pounds and you feel you can’t escape. 

You might be able to live through all this. You might be strong enough. But if you’re anything like me, wouldn’t you want to run away too?