I just finished a bottle of wine.

They said they would share my story but only if it had a universal, deep meaning. Well shit, I thought. I needed to get in touch with the universe if I wanted to be a published writer. But I was barely in touch with myself. Yet, I was supposed to have this great life realization then write it all down; coherent and colloquial. My solo cup filled with moscato and I sat blankly staring at the blank document on screen. Fuck this. ‘Graduate Application Status Checker’- No Decision. I downed that cup and poured another. This was the beginning of my alcoholism. I felt like crying because I’m a smart girl and I understood what was happening. but I kept pouring cup after cup and soon I had a really nice first paragraph. I felt sad for the writers before me. To have the negative stigma of drunks or alcoholics but when the thing you love the most in the world is attracted to the alcohol by volume to a moth like the flame, you get closer and closer to the pretty light; The warmth, the brilliance, the sheer radiance and whilst thinking just a step closer but still far enough away to not get burned.  Swig after  swig, cup after shot burns down your throat and chapters after chapters roll out your fingertips then it’s too late. You start to smell that burning smell. And it’s all gone. Wings are burnt to a crisp and an entire existence has committed to the fire; it burns, so stupid, so dull-so universally deep.


In the first year after I graduated college, I started to drink more. During the summer before I applied to graduate school it got pretty bad; my drinking. On the shuttle from my resort to Orlando studios, my throat literally burned to be doused in alcohol. I was so scared that I was an alcoholic. Instead of drinking myself into a stupor, I decided to get my life together and one of the steps in the process was to apply to grad school. A thirty page writing sample was a part of the application requirements, thirty pages of my own creative writing, thirty pages more that what I was expecting. Thirty pages that it seemed came from creative juices that could only be squeezed when they wanted to. I found that mind stimulating tasks helped to get the juices flowing but the thing that made them fall beautifully from my mind to the page like Niagara was “grown up juice”.

I found myself drinking at 1pm on a Wednesday just to be able to write something that didn’t feel forced. It dawned on me that the old cliché that all writers were alcoholics, was true for me. But not because we/they wanted to be. Yes, I agree most good writers are very troubled thus they drink and have good stories however, it’s not by choice. We have to be this way because that’s what people want to read about. Think about it more people have probably read E.L. James than Malcom Gladwell.

all hail the heartbreaker

so he just broke up with me…again. he seems really upset and i don’t want to calm him down, i want to get upset too and curse, yell, kick & scream. but i hold my tongue and play the whiny bitch role that we all know doesn’t fit me. i try to calm him down & ask why when in all actuality, i’m over it and glad he did it first because i didn’t want to. i didn’t want to be the one to hurt him and watch his green eyes turn to gray. we’ve been down this road a few times before and i made a promise i would never hurt him. he didn’t make the same promise. normally i would fight for it, but like i said i’m just going to ask questions and not stick around to hear the answers. but maybe i should. i have to be as phony as i can be. i’ll stare at something on his face without blinking so i can actually have my eyes water. and once he sees the illusion of how hurt i am, hopefully he won’t post those pictures i let him take that one night when i was intoxicated by his smell and hard liquor.

you think you’re doing good. and for awhile you are because the part of your brain that lets you talk & show others emotion is really stupid & the other part that controls your heart is really smart so the smart half essentially convinces yourself that you’ll really be fine, that you’re really okay but then one night it finally decide that it’s had enough. so it reveals all these things to your stupid half; all these things that you thought you were done thinking, or people you were done missing. it tells you that you really did want to meet his mother and that you weren’t okay with meeting up with him in the middle of the night to do it in your car, it asks “are you really that stupid?” & you start to cry because you are. and there’s no one to even be mad at so you stay in bed and cry until someone makes you get up and go out into the world. you try to function and the stupid half of your brain thinks it’s excelling at keeping the secrets behind your eyes but no one is convinced. depending on your friends they’ll either be worried and try to convince you to talk to someone, get help or take these pills my aunt took last summer because she couldn’t get happy again when her cat died or they’ll leave you to your own demise. eventually, you’re smart half either takes their advice and tries to smarten up your stupid half- this may or may not work. approach at your own risk. the other option your smart half finds is to once again convince your stupid half, everything will be fine & that it gets better- this may or may not work. if neither option works, eventually everyone in your life will leave you because you’re a lost cause. maybe there’ll be one person who doesn’t which will make you even sadder because you want to be happy for them and they’re trying really hard to make you that way but it just doesn’t work. if either option works, you’ll get better but not on your own. you’d have to rely on pills and better not forget a dose or else you’ll be thrown down that dark hole again & they will say in the other room, “it really seemed to be working.” or your smart half again gets fed up with duping itself (technically) and before it asks again, you realize, you really are that stupid. and the cycle starts all over again. for other diseases they say admitting/awareness is the first step to getting better but they don’t tell you there is no getting better from this disease. & my smart half has convinced my stupid half that i’m okay with that. i’m fine with crying in front of people for something that happened three months ago that they have no knowledge of, i’m okay with never meeting his mother, i’m okay with sitting in my car at 3am watching him run back to his on the dark street. really i am.