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in silent reverie
May. 5th, 2014 11:09 amI thought that I could blame Sutter for my dive into drinking, the fact that he handed me the cup filled with beer the reason I am this way. But I can’t help but think that maybe this was inevitable. That maybe, like my father, I am always going to seek escapism in liquid form. Or whichever form it takes that will let me get away.
For a while, I keep my flask at my side but never take a sip. I pride myself on that fact. It’s a comfort in and of itself, the cool metal and the curves of my engraved name. A gift and a curse all at once, a beautiful bottle for a brew that made me a wreck at prom, that made soft and pliable for a boy who, a few weeks prior, didn't even know who I was. And I'm doing okay, I think. It's strange having nothing to do. Not having to wake up at 5am six days a week to deliver a route that reaps cheques in my mother's name. I've spoken to the advisors at the colleges and had them reassure me time and time again that having a transcript won't be an issue, and even if it sits in my gut, the uncertainty, I try to believe them. I try, and that's new, to embrace change.
But my arm still aches and there's only so many painkillers the doctor will give me without asking too many questions, and I think of how my dad started with the socially acceptable types of substance abuse, pills just like these, before he turned to the lure of gasoline. A lure I never understood. At least not until I knew it had nothing to do with the means but rather the end. The end of the pain, the end of the noise, and then, one horrible day for my sister, my poor sister who had to find him and his alive-but-dead eyes, his end.
I should wait until I get home and I should try and stop myself from taking such large, burning sips, but for all that I am getting right, for all of the future that I have before me, I am stuck and sore and scared and Sutter said awful, awful things before I got here that still swim around in my consciousness and gnaw away at my (however childish) hopes and dreams. So though I look around to make sure it’s not too obvious, the swig I take is in the park and I wince as the vodka bites. Wiping my mouth, tears fill my eyes, and I wonder how long it will take until it does its job and numbs me enough to move on.
For a while, I keep my flask at my side but never take a sip. I pride myself on that fact. It’s a comfort in and of itself, the cool metal and the curves of my engraved name. A gift and a curse all at once, a beautiful bottle for a brew that made me a wreck at prom, that made soft and pliable for a boy who, a few weeks prior, didn't even know who I was. And I'm doing okay, I think. It's strange having nothing to do. Not having to wake up at 5am six days a week to deliver a route that reaps cheques in my mother's name. I've spoken to the advisors at the colleges and had them reassure me time and time again that having a transcript won't be an issue, and even if it sits in my gut, the uncertainty, I try to believe them. I try, and that's new, to embrace change.
But my arm still aches and there's only so many painkillers the doctor will give me without asking too many questions, and I think of how my dad started with the socially acceptable types of substance abuse, pills just like these, before he turned to the lure of gasoline. A lure I never understood. At least not until I knew it had nothing to do with the means but rather the end. The end of the pain, the end of the noise, and then, one horrible day for my sister, my poor sister who had to find him and his alive-but-dead eyes, his end.
I should wait until I get home and I should try and stop myself from taking such large, burning sips, but for all that I am getting right, for all of the future that I have before me, I am stuck and sore and scared and Sutter said awful, awful things before I got here that still swim around in my consciousness and gnaw away at my (however childish) hopes and dreams. So though I look around to make sure it’s not too obvious, the swig I take is in the park and I wince as the vodka bites. Wiping my mouth, tears fill my eyes, and I wonder how long it will take until it does its job and numbs me enough to move on.
