I just went into a rehab and lay my soul out naked for a group of twenty women to inspect and dissect. Each story, hidden secrets, internal battles, wounds and raw flesh.
I shared that I am a drug addict, an alcoholic, an ex prostitute, a woman of suicidal and criminal tendecies. My family has given up on me. Driven me to the homeless shelter on Christmas day, changed locks, shunned me.
I’ve breathed recovery, spirituality, trudged the road of happy destiny and stumbled, flat on my face into a spoon, a hotel room, a cock attatched to a hundred dollar bill.
I shared my insanity. The time I overdosed in my apartment and woke up to narcan and paramedics. I made my boyfriend spend hours in the back yard looking for the dope he tossed over the back balcony cause he thought the cops were coming. How we vouched to smoke it not shoot it, until the next time I od’d.
How I hate every jogger on the street, every family in the grocery store, every smile unprovoked. They had to be high, they had to be.
I shared how even when I’m sober, I don’t feel whole. How I seek a man to fit the fragmented pieces of me into something beautiful, something acceptable, “something someone can take home and say, look mom, can we keep her?!”
How I cried the other day after sex with a person I care about because even that too, like whiskey, like heroin, pills, cocaine, xtc, meth…. it all stopped working. I simply feel wrong as me.
I’m the chameleon girl. I’m whoever you want me to be baby.
But I’d rather be a name whispered in grace than stained on cotton sheets by the nameless lips of men in expensive suites.
I’d rather be the strong woman standing on my two feet, with my 10 dollar an hour waitressing job, and my bus pass and my handful of real friends than the pretty party girl who is the pulse of Friday night. (Or just thinks so)
I could see the memories like my own play over in these women’s eyes. At last I’m not alone. They understood. Unscripted, naked, raw, vulnerable. They grabbed my hand and asked me to stay longer. I gave out my number.
I feel high. Like real high. Like, my life means something. All the pain, all the bullshit, the relapses. They were in awe of my six months sober that I find so insignificant.
Then again its easy to forget where you come from.
romaincrisis
dededos
blakekathryn
germansingergirl
turnnoffyourmind
andulkaphoto
yousharknotpass
