“Dear Life” (a painful memoir-ish-essay w/o details)
I don’t know where to begin this or what to say; I guess I’ve been busy. I am one of those people that don’t know the beginning of things. I have no idea how the song starts, but I have the rest memorized. The beginning is too complicated, too effortlessly painful in nature. The older sister to the ending. I have been thinking and changing.
What I needed to change, where and what I needed to escape, in blatant revelation would be odious of me to reveal. The important thing is the method, the timing, the content, and emotion of the phenomena.
In less than four years I made enormous changes to my life at great cost. It began when I left an ex-boyfriend, which sounds a lot like the beginning of many stories of change, but that’s not the beginning. Years of my life were lost to me, more than were not. I woke up one day and I began to run for it, my life. You.
I went home, so that I could leave it, I had never really left although I was never there. And when I was there, I wasn’t home. I went to work, never slept and drank heavily. I was doing so much better no one could believe it. I could actually function enough to drink and talk and it was a fucking miracle.
I realized that I had forgotten whom I was and where I had come from and how to get back. When I started running for my life the truth came by in a blister. I was lost and I came from nowhere I could ever return. So I ran faster. I was writing. I was thinking and changing. I was having lots of sex and drinking and writing more and filming it. I did this in hopes that when I watched it and read it, I could figure out who I was.
The first thing I noticed was that I was sad. The second thing I noticed was that I was sick. The third thing I noticed was that I was funny. The last thing I noticed was that I did not give a fuck. I was still in hiding though, I wasn’t ready to leave the world of fiction reading and heavy drinking and long drives on cocaine. I had already left so much behind and I had to hold on to something, I was running so fast. I was doing so much better and nobody could believe it. It was weird.
I started to open the door more often, but not always. I began to answer the phone, sometimes. After a while, I went places and drank heavily with other people while I tired to wake up. My entire body was like a numb limb waking up stretched across every fiber of my perception. I didn’t write about it though, I wrote about someone else, some place else, doing something else. It was like medicine. A lot like the alcohol and cocaine.