Don't get wasted if it's Monday the next morning and some other hopeless things

They say alcohol makes you forget. On the other hand, some researchers have studied how alcohol actually helps prime a specific part of our brain that props up our ability to learn and remember things. Interesting contradictory points, huh? Either way, sweetie, here’s the takeaway from another fecund in misery, totally unwished-for day; hey, cut yourself some gentle slack, and don’t get wasted when it’s Monday, the beginning of yet another bustling, loud week the next day. 

I wish some words could be heard even if they’re just written. Like, I wish if I write the word ‘sigh’ right now, you could register how deep and despondent it was in your ears. There are days when speaking seems as if it’s an incredible superpower that I cannot grasp. If my voice is a place, it would be on another planet I wouldn’t get to before my existence here on Earth vanishes. If it’s a person I would take pleasure in being friends with, they would be that kind of human being that you’ve always admired but makes you too inhibited and apprehensive even to dare to move. In other words, they’re unreachable. My voice? On some sulky, out-of-sorts day, it’s unreachable, too. 

And because I could not take hold of my voice, I silenced it more. Instead of seeking a way to freedom, with my enervated, shakingly quiet, more insignificant than notable personage, I stood up, all wobbly, made exhausted by blood and tears, and chained myself harder and more painfully so with larger, ruinous figures of tragedy and destruction. Told quite frankly, without mercy, I was looking for a quick, comforting escape; for a way to forget–a state of mind without spiky borders and obstacles with knives. I wanted to forget. I yearned to disappear. I was voiceless, but it’s so fucking tumultuous in my head. One night, I cut and cried and got so drunk, forgetting that it was Monday the following morning. (😜) Talk about the quintessential, organized life of a dork. Heh.

In retrospection, the things that I had done to myself made me laugh out loud. They’re simply ridiculous and miserable and well, so very like me, which I shall admit unpleasant, horrifying, triggering. All things that had run away from beauty. They say alcohol will make you forget, but it didn’t work like that in my case. I didn’t exactly remember things more vividly, either. I just… didn’t know where I was supposed to be. I just… wondered why I was still there, breathing fiery air, red-faced, my whole life spinning on a rusty chair, more passionate about crying to death than in being alive.  

Emily Dickinson said, “hope is the thing with feathers.” In my life that has always been lacking vitality and purpose, I shall say that what my eyes, my mind, and my heart have taught me is hope is that which is dead. Hope is what I wanted to dream of on a drunken, moonless night; on wet pillows, holding a lipstick-stained wineglass with swollen arms. And I didn’t dream a sweet dream. Like my voice, I couldn’t find hope. Like meaning, like some sense to seemingly senseless things. Gone. I got wasted, neither forgotten nor remembered things–just spiraled down further into the ocean of question marks. 

Anyway, it’s Monday again tomorrow. Your subliminal reminder to not get drunk tonight is ringing. Go pick it up. Or, maybe not. Go on, take that shot. Despite the headaches, the unstoppable tears, the ever-growing self-loathing, the wounds, the scars, anything, get back to work, darling. Pull yourself together and get back to work.