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The Clay and the Potter by Aitor Frias & Cecilia Jimen

1377 Days - Sober Monologues Pt. 2

(CW: alcoholism, addiction, heartbreak, depression)

Warning. This part does not have a happy ending. But it’s near. I can feel it.

Heartache. When I got my heart broken again, they didn’t shut the door properly and my old friend addiction stuck her nosy head through the frame. She’s wondering how I’m holding up. Letting me know, that if I ever needed a shoulder to cry on, she’d be there for me.

High. I haven’t felt this way in a long time. Not a single thought wasted on addiction. For years I felt like her ex, desperately waiting for her call, for us to get back together. Instead I got drunk on the personality of this one person. Being full of hope. Butterflies endlessly filling up my stomach, allowing me to float. Later sitting on the floor, giggling. Kicking my feet in bed, when they send another message.

Unwelcome. A couple months after it ended, I moved again. Addiction followed. Every single time the darker thoughts sneak their way back into my mind, she knows exactly how and where to find me. She’ll be showing up at my doorstep, „just to check in“. She says she worries for me. And I’m worried I’ll give in and pick up the phone, the next time she calls.

Incarcerated. Everybody says being sober is being free. Feeling freely. Enjoying life freely. Getting better at handling your emotions. Freely. Yet I find myself imprisoned by the many thoughts, that try to get me to relapse. They’re telling me bittersweet things. Offering to fill the void all the past lovers tore into my soul. Giving me the warmth of the hug I so desperately need. Desperately wanting to stop the bleed of my ever aching heart, trying hard not to forget alcohol works as a blood thinner. Trying to not hurt myself in the process and bleed out.

Shame. The feeling of telling loved ones „Hey, I’m thinking of joining an AA meeting. I think I might need it“, after trying to tell myself that I didn’t actually have a problem, because other peoples addictions seemed worse, so I don’t count as an addict. I could go a few days without a drink, so surely it couldn’t have been that bad. But now she’s constantly on my mind. Every. Waking. Moment. It’s getting harder to walk past the liquor aisle. Picking up the pace, averting my eyes, yet trying to catch a glimpse.

Shimmer. The light in my eyes is getting duller with every day. I can feel how I’m withering away. Still I know it’s going to get better. Everything will get better again. There’s hope. Though, I don’t want it to get better. When will it finally be good? And stay good. For good. Good.

Trapped. Just the good kid, getting lost on track in this ever confusing network of life. One wrong turn and I’m lost. Again. Stuck, where I never wanted to end up. Trying to breathe, but they’re slowly suffocating me. Trying to find a way out, but not knowing where else to go. I am stuck, but don’t actually know, where else I am supposed to be, just that it’s not here. I don’t know who I am, nor who I am supposed to be, just that I don’t wanna be me.

#mine #sober monologues #gentle art of self destruction #dark vibes #personal essay #essay writing #heartbreak #heartache #soberlife #sobriety #recovery #mental health #grief #tw alcoholism #straight edge

xin-bloomx

1240 days - Sober monologues

(CW: alcoholism/being sober/yearning)

She’s is my friend, though at times she’s my biggest enemy. Sometimes the urge that lurks is hard to fight. It could be so easy. Nothing’s easier than giving in. Leaning onto the disease. Searching for comfort in her. It’s just one drink. Not much harm can be done. Or can it? Shes a long lost friend. Whenever the world got too much, I knew I could rely on her. The world was a lot most days. Abandoning her still hits deep. I think a lot about her. Yet sometimes not at all. Though colder days are near and I feel so distant from others. I can feel her name dance on the tip of my tongue. I long for just one more tiny taste. A glimpse of her. Just give me a little taste.

I’m afraid of the damage our deadly kiss might cause. She’ll quickly put her claws back into my flesh. Refusing to release me again. Next time she gets me, might be the last, for I long for it all to just pass.

It’ll pass. One day the voices calling for her shall just be quiet. And I shall not miss her one tiny bit. The house will be filled with laughter and love, without a sight of her. Not one thought lost on her.

Sobriety taught me to embrace all feelings -good and bad. Though the bad ones sting a little more without her in them. No way to numb the pain that runs so deep. No way to just wither away. Get lost in tranquility.

I’m afraid of becoming that person, whose whole identity revolves around sobriety. I’m more than my past addiction. I’m more than her. I’m more than what happened to me. Though I would’ve wished for someone to turn to, when it seemed too much to quit.

Addiction is like the friend you know you should cut off. The friend you know doesn’t serve you anymore. The one you’re better off without. But every single time they return, sneak their way back into your mind, you can’t help but think of the great times you shared. Even though the memories are tinted with a bitter taste. I recall every single time I sat in the corner of a party I didn’t wanna be at, crying, throwing up. Embarrassing myself, because I couldn’t stand myself. Because I couldn’t believe people could enjoy my company for myself. I always needed her by my side. She made me stronger. More likable. Isn’t that a sad realization? 1240 days down the line, I realized she didn’t make me more likable. She made me look like a fool next to her. She made me the butt of the joke. Though I do not remember life without her.

I remember my last drink so vividly. A warm spring day, after 3 years of fall. Surrounded by laughter and love, sadness was there too. This time I stopped after 1 drink. That one last drink. 1240 days down the line, life is somewhat fine.

Today I barely miss her. Her knocking on my door reminds me to step back. Breathe in. Give myself a break.

After all it’s all worth it. The tears. The pain. The hunger for her. They’re nothing. Nothing compared to the life I now get to build.

xin-bloomx

just bringing this one back, before sharing part 2, that has been sitting in my drafts for what feels like an eternity

rocktheholygrail

Hannibal (2013-2015)

1x04 - “Œuf”

thedreadlady

“i asked chatgpt—" well i asked hannibal lecter and he looked at me like i was a rare cut of meat and said ‘all sorrows can be borne if you put them in a story’ and now i’m in the oven at 350°.

🍂and I wish I could get over this feeling of slipping under🍂

✨ instagram ✨

chronictranssexuality

"you don't owe anyone anything" You are a tar pit. Speak for yourself. I personally owe the cafe employees my dishes put away and my friends a listening ear and small scared insects a cup and a gentle trip outside. Hyperindividualism is a rancid infection borne of capitalism and willfully misinterpreted therapyspeak and I will defy it by continuing to be kind regardless of whether or not it benefits me personally

notgreatbob

''i wasted those years'' who cares. you lived the only life you could've lived in those moments

android-boywife

it is so important that you are a little bit ugly. please get comfortable with having unplucked eyebrows and nonexistent jawlines and wrinkles. let your blue hair grow out into an uneven pale green and your clothes be old and mend them and modify them until they’re unique to you. wear lipstick which doesnt compliment your skintone and mismatched outfits which went out of fashion 5 years ago. be a little bit too loud and a little bit too passionate and as weird as you can be because oh my god there is nothing more disturbing to me than perfection. beauty is manufactured and sold to us and you need to realise that you are a fucking animal to live a joyful life I am so serious. you cant obsess over aesthetics forever please just live messily and make your body your home however you please.

if you dont do it for you, do it for all the teenagers who will see u in the street and know that they are not obligated to be attractive

PSA: whilst praying mantises are associated with post-mating cannibalism, there’s no scientific evidence for it to happen regularly in the wild. Most cases are observed in captivity, which isn’t a reliable representation of the mating behavior ✨