I spent the night before last writing something beautiful and terribly sad.
It came out so easily, so honestly, unexpectedly that it must've been something really needed said quite bad.
​I should've left this sad said enough alone, let the words live brief on a page I had turned.
But I didn't. And today I made it longer and i made it worse.
Without thinking of what haunts me, I made it a song, even worse more.
And here I am, mask off, slow motion crying, driving home from the grocery store.
I tried to listen to Angst, I played it over and over and over hoping it would take, but the three syllables of the word 'leave-a-ble' took it's beat, took it's rhythm, took it's place.

The world likes to live like hope isn’t the most dangerous four letter word.
Like love is or... fuck or fear or time or kill.
Hope.
It crushes. It causes.
Hope is terrifying. Alarming. Swift. Unforgiving. It can maim, sweep, shift, and steal the air right from the thought of a lung. Hope ignites, it quiets. It is volatile, liable to change rapidly, unpredictably.
It can make you hallucinate and dream eyes open, agape and wet, arms out, heft and hold.
Hope can make you sweat and pulse, panic. And, oh, can it tickle. Make the face flush, skin blush and swell. It can intoxicate. It can divide and multiply.

No one can give hope to you, truly.
You just have to have it. Innately. Born and bruised with it.
Hope possesses without permission, without remorse. Like a cannonball ill-concerned with it's wake and destruction, knowing only forward momentum until eventual halted relief.
*sigh*

I have been sober since Winter Solstice. The darkest and longest of nights.
My alcoholism is like a cruel puzzle.
I never really believed there was a bigger picture to be made. Some pieces were ridiculously large, pointy, stabby, loud, bright, awful. Other pieces were small and rounded and worn. Some were a message, some were silent. I just knew I felt like I never had all the piece I need at once so I kept drinking cuz who cares and why does it matter and no one is looking anyway.
You’d think nine months of pregnancy would’ve been the booze wake up call a person would need.
you’d think becoming a mother would redefine items of importance, reset the triage of life.
You’d think?

​And yet I miss it.
I miss drinking.
​I miss the way nothing was sharp, I could walk around like a dull pencil, used and scrawling.

I miss the fuzz around the edges, the blur. The lack of hard lines meant loose interpretation and back peddling was easier then.

I miss not showing up for myself. I’ve tried it a few times now, showing up for myself. It’s uncomfortable and inconsistent and wobbles like two bad legs on a chair.


I miss the comfort of sick and swollen, padded skin hugging me to numb. Pressure filled and layered and complicated but formulaic.


I miss feeling less.


I miss less feeling.


All this feeling is terrifying and I am like a stunted child filled with uncertainty masked as utter overconfidence defended by weak ego. The vulnerability, the powerlessness, the nerves, the sweat, the smell.
It’s not me.
I left most of what i knew about me at the bottom of a bottle. Crying without it these days is so much more painful.
This new person, this me, is already so tired of feeling and it’s only been a blink. A blip. Time shredding through me like paper cuts.

Sharp.

Clear.

Defined.

Relentless.

I feel incredibly alone.
Not in that familiar alone, in the unfamiliar one. A new one. A new alone.
Alone like I’m the only person who has been with me forever, alone like I am the only one who’s aware of my life’s nuances, ebbs, flows, traumas, and dreams... Alone like I am the only one who can actually listen to myself and understand and sympathize, empathize, therapize me.... and I’m a terrible at all of it.
I am a terrible, terrible friend to myself.
I’m a terrible listener. I ignore what my body asks for. I pretend my ears aren’t ringing and I sleep so I don’t have to think anymore. I’m terrible at reading my own body language, terrible at listening to my fight or flight. I’m terrible at allowing my thoughts finish uninterrupted.
I am lonely because I have no one but myself and my connection to myself sucks.

I want someone other than me to fit. I don’t want to look to myself for any thing. I want the answer to be outside of me, something or someone I can actually hold.

This is the second time this year i have had to tell myself... that no one... is coming... to save you, Mallory.

No one is coming to save you, Mallory.

You have to save yourself.


But I’m trying.
I’m trying to repair.
I’m trying to listen to the little tugs, the way my apprehensive breath falls.
I’m trying to be the big sister to myself that I never had.
And it is so uncomfortable.
It’s uncomfortable being sober, being all the feelings all the time.

I feel split.
Does anyone else feel like there’s more than one of themselves inside of them?
I feel like theres two of me in here.
One that always lets the other down. One that... makes the other one stay in shitty situations, dangerous ones. One that pours alcohol over both of them to cope. One that...when she gets an inch takes a mile and then lies about it cuz fuck it. One that constantly drags her feet and assumes the worst. She’s a bitch and a bully and a terrible friend to this... other beautiful creator self. This other self just wants love and touch and support and partnership and a home... to run away to. A home in someone else who’s nicer.
​Who isn’t so terrible.

Most of who I am I have made record of. 
I've been compelled to write since before puberty. What began as crayon sketchbooks turned into pen and paper journals filled and venting unrequited puppy love, parental divorce rage, misdirected self image hatred. This outpouring continued and morphed over the years into painting. Painting flooded into drawing and back to writing. Writing paralleled drawing and into song writing and guitaring. Doodling to blogging. 
And... here... blogging hopefully back into painting. 


I may not have been producing posts and doodles, but I've been saturating. I've been all the while recording... recording and afraid to be read. 

I don't think I'm alone in having spent the last year making decisions that I believed would save the lives of other people. I spent the last year hoping the people around me were doing the same. 

I did it again, though. Poured out too much from my own cup and left myself empty for too long. I wish I could sit here and write that I won't do it again. I'm sure I will. 

People are their own galaxies... with gravity and rotation, with epicenters and orbiting rubbish belts. I think we forget, I forget, that when another entity is introduced to our galaxy, every degree  within that galaxy shifts and changes. Some things get kicked out of the spin, more mass and less space. Everyone has to share the oxygen and... me... holding my breath so others can have more, does my galaxy any good. 
It's just fake.
Faux.
Temporary.
Unsustainable.



If anything wants in my galaxy again, my galaxy with a beautiful planet and most exquisite daughter moon--it's going to have to accept the fact that I breathe heavily. It's going to have to read the cannon of my life, read between the lines, read the scratches on paper, the colors on canvas, the fortune cookie scraps I keep, the doodles, the blogs, and be very very hungry for more. 

In the meantime, my moon and I, we're gonna be the center, for once, together.