A vent chapter.
TW: CSA/addiction
Playing dead
At a very young age it was necessary for me to walk outside my body and watch from the corner of my bedroom.
The confusion and pain were too much for any child, so I had to become a ghost to bear with the situation.
I remember in the beginning I was holding on to my innocence as tightly as I could.
That didn't stop him, and soon I'd realize that.
I don't think I learned to take it, I don't think that at all, I was doing what I needed to do to survive.
I remember I'd pretend to be asleep when I heard his footsteps.
He knew I wasn't, we both did.
But soon I'd learn to play dead.
I still do.
Perceptions
I hope more than anything that I am not defined by my struggles with addiction.
When someone looks at me I wonder what they see.
Maybe they see a writer or a student or a kind, gentle soul.
But the worry lingers that they see that I didn't sleep last night or the way my words seem to string together quite poorly.
I don't want to be seen as an addict. I will not tell myself I am anything else but one, but I am much more than an addiction.
It's so cynical because I am not unaware of the science that lurks behind my poor decision making.
I know my dopamine receptors are being taught to chase after a high I have made them no longer capable of.
I understand that the more I take the quicker my tolerance will grow, the lesser the effects will be.
I've seen dependence and withdrawal in others and I am not above it.
But just because you know what's true doesn't mean you will see it for what it is.
For a friend
Although my struggles with addiction are quiet, they are defining.
This is what I turn to in times of darkness, this is all I think about, this is what keeps me going.
Nothing holds me this tight, nothing is this all consuming, and nothing motivates me quite like this does.
So it is true that I am able to keep my eyes open at the dinner table, hide the under eye bags, and sit on my shaky hands, but this takes up more space in my mind then I'd like to admit to.
Sometimes I feel like nothing more, nothing more than a craving, a chasing, a temporary and passing moment.
When I wrote about this sense of being defined by the fleeting sense of whatever I'm looking for he reminded me that I am more than an addict.
As defined as I may feel I am more than my struggles.
Stop thinking about me
"What do you like besides writing and drinking?"
I laugh to myself.
Not much honesty.
I'd love to write happy stories about the sun, but I am in my little dark age, the sun hasn't risen yet.
I write about everything that goes on behind my eyes and it seems lately that's all there is.
When will I get what I need? How can I do it quietly? Are they onto me?
I am always wondering when I'll get my next high, it's all I think about really.
I try to keep this part of my life hidden, far below the surface.
I feel like I'm always wondering if I'll get caught, when I'll trip over the string.
I wish that I thought of something less besides the chase.
YOU ARE READING
Letters from sixteen
PoetryA poetry book I wrote during periods of my life with many different facets. I wrote about happy moments, addiction, and trauma, the book becomes more depressing as it goes on. I choose the title "letters from sixteen" to capture how I wanted to capt...
