Rae. 22. Costume student dreaming of touching famous people's faces. Queer as fuck. Feminism. Fandoms. Cosplay. Drunk Blawging.
You have been sober for X amount of days.
When you first wrote this, you left that number blank,
you know from trying it before that the number is always changing,
and not because it’s always going up,
one hard time and it can suddenly drop.
Sometimes, people ask you if it’s difficult.
You wanna say that it’s so much easier to get up everyday,
because this is the best decision you’ve ever made
it’s fucking hard.
When you write,
you’re used to having a glass of wine
and you’re not much of a public speaker
so you’d normally have a bottle before.
You don’t know what it is about speaking to a crowd
but suddenly you feel like your voice gets too loud
and it starts to crack
and your hands shake
you can probably feel it now
it feels like your tweaking
when really you’re just trying to regulate your breathing:
giving up drinking
is like public speaking.
It’s not something you’d normally choose,
but it’s probably the best thing for you to do.
The symptons are pretty much the same:
anxiety, cold sweats, dry throat, and when you fuck it all up – there’s shame.
You don’t hear a lot about addicts in their early twenties,
you’re not saying that’s a name you’d choose for yourself,
but you might be
and three out of five doctors agree.
When everyone around you
is burning the candle at both ends
it can be hard to figure out where the wick begins.
Addiction isn’t about the drugs you take, the drinks you down, the way you fuck around,
it’s about how.
When you think about alcoholics,
you imagine rockstar breakfasts – vodka over cornflakes, vodka on your toothbrush,
soaring higher with spirits, sleeping with Mr Jack Daniels,
mouths that taste like White Lightening, and powder flavoured fucking.
But that wasn’t you,
you were never a skinny white boy living out a punk tragedy;
no. You were a middle aged mum,
a desperate housewife,
a midlife crisis,
a multiple divorcee
all before the age of twenty-three.
What you mean is
you liked wine.
You really liked wine.
just three quid bottles from asda,
but rose was the one for you.
See, you graduated from beer and vodka by fifteen,
you thought you better grow up,
start treating yourself sophisticatedly.
You were a lady who lunched
it was all very sex and the city
you were an early drunk
but with a glass in your hand you felt smart and pretty.
People don’t notice, when you’re twenty
that you’re drinking every evening
and in the mornings
and you’ve spent all your money so you’re not actually eating
but you still turned up to the party
with two bottles in your bag
one in your pocket
and one in your hand,
so your friends slap you on the back,
say it’s great to see you man -
they roll their eyes at what you’re drinking
and they laugh
say of course.
They haven’t seen the bottle graveyard under your bed yet
haven’t caught you throwing up red yet,
they don’t know that you missed your little sister’s birthday
two years in a row
or that you’re still not talking to your mum yet.
they don’t know that all your relationships are fucked before they’ve even begun,
because they’re all built on drinking,
but your girlfriend’s just do it for fun
and they think it’s weird when they stop
and you carry on.
So your friends laugh,
and they say of course.
They just think dating’s your thing
just like drinking’s your thing
because writing’s your thing
and writers drink, drinkers write.
You tell yourself that;
you’re a poet:
you write drunk, edit sober
write drunk, edit drunk..
you never actually find a time to be sober
so it feels like that whole dream is actually over.
But you take comfort in the stereotype
the brooding poet, writing into the night
drinking and smoking, smoking and drinking.
You’ve written more love letters to a bottle of booze
than any woman.
Girls leave your life namelessy
but the wine sticks around consistently.
You don’t hear a lot about addicts in their twenties,
they’re too busy stuck in love affairs,
toxic relationships with toxins,
no one really notices,
but they’re there,
you promise that they are there.
But you went sober,
you were lucky,
you finally figured it out
after another christmas that you can’t bare to talk about.
You’ve been sober for one day, ten days, nine months.
You miss the bottle like you’d miss a limb,
but you’re proud,
you feel like you’re finally living life out loud,
and now your friends know,
they say of course.
They know that you no longer need to be buzzed to go to bed,
the thoughts are finally clearer in your head.
It hasn’t been long,
and of course
you aren’t quite sleeping right yet,
and you still get the sweats,
you’re in the process of getting things fixed and set
and yeah, the cravings scare you half to death,
but life is suddenly moving ahead.
Ever since you stopped drinking
you’ve been feeling like you could tackle anything next
maybe even public speaking.