Sincerely October

Letters from July

A collection written in early July.

The ever changing truth
The truth folds in on itself, contradicts itself, and changes by the hour.
I tell the truth, I believe what I say only to find it is no longer true, if it ever was.
I find the truth only to see the words rearrange themselves again and again and again.
One hundred thousand narratives that are all honest and all contradict themselves more than the one before.
I search for the truth but I feel I will never find it, not because it is out of reach but because it will change before I can write it down.

Dissociation 
I've had some semblance of awareness for a long while. I've known that something was wrong, I think I almost always have.
The thought of telling someone rarely crossed my mind and when I did it made my heart race.
No one was supposed to know, a story that played out in my life more times than I can count.
I wanted to figure this out on my own, to know what was wrong, to give everything a box and a name.
I was never able to do this. I didn't know how, I didn't know where to start, I didn't know how to tell the difference.
I kept telling myself that I would find my way, that somehow one day this would all make sense to me, but that day is yet to come.
The truth is I don't know how to live with this. I don't know where to draw the line, so I told.
While painting the gray walls it was easier to tell my mother while looking away from her. My heart beat rapidly in my chest but I was able to get the words out in a way that almost made sense.
I still don't know how to hold this or where to put this down, but I know I have guidance, I know these stories live outside the confines of my head now.

Background noise
It's a soft hum in the background of my life.
It's always there, sometimes I can ignore it, sometimes I wish I could.
I am reminded when I listen to my old favorite songs, the lyrics remind me of nights spent chasing a high. I am reminded when someone mentions it, maybe they don't realize what they've said, maybe they didn't say anything at all. I am reminded endlessly, sometimes I don't even know what brings it back again.
I miss it sometimes, it's in the nature of my illness. I hate what I became and I miss it almost everyday.
My brain was transformed and rewired. The stories were told so many times they are now written behind my eyelids.
I almost miss it, just not enough.

Bittersweet
I look at the valentines cards I made during my little dark age, I stroll through the photos of my darkest hours, I remember and retell the stories endlessly.
It was the loneliest time in my entire life. I felt consumed by something I never wanted to be. Everything I hated in someone else I was.
I chased after highs that stopped being possible long again. My body suffered because I couldn't stop. I wasn't overtaking my life, it was the entirety of it.
Looking back at these periods I miss it. I couldn't tell you why, why would I miss wanting to kill myself every day?
There's no rhythm to it, it doesn't make any sense, it never did.
Something in my bones wants to see how bad I can get. Something in me wants to get sick, something in me isn't happy and doesn't want to be.
The hollow feeling is comforting, as it flows into me I am reminded of listening to raindrops hit my roof. The emptiness is soul crushing but it has a place within my heart.
At times like this I have to ask myself what I want to be, I have to wonder whether this will kill me or learn to live in spite of it.
I remind myself that although it feels like something valuable it will never fill me.

Today
A strange series of contradictions today is.
I feel that I have never had distance between me and the drugs like I do now. For so long they felt so intimately tied to me, written behind my eyelids and carved into my throat, I could not do anything but tell the same stories that grew increasingly more self defeating with every tell. It's been months now, I'm starting to miss it less, I realize there was so much more to life than getting high in my bedroom, there always was. It was an option for so long. Will I or won't I? But it seems I know what I really want.
I find myself with less to write about, the narratives do not grab me by the shoulders and shake me like they used to.
Somedays I am filled with elation, I have escaped my little dark age with a sense of relief in my every breath. I still have days when the hollow feeling consumes me, but things are different now.
I start to confront the person I am, I realize I am not the angel I thought I was, and that I too have been unkind and thoughtless. Sometimes I can relieve this, sometimes we can talk about it, but some people are gone with little chance of return. It seems those who aren't coming back leave me with the most term oil. I wish I could explain myself, I wish I hadn't walked out before I had the chance too.
I still think about the rape. The tapes replay in my mind but I feel much of it has been purged. I told the stories so many times that they no longer only live within me.
For a long while I thought I wouldn't tell anyone, that I would figure this out on my own, but I never did. I don't know where to start on my own, I am unsure of what steps to take, but I now have an understanding that this is something I can be guided through.

Wanting it bad enough
As time passes I slowly become faithful in myself that I survive this, I start to think that maybe this won't be the thing that defines then kills me.
I believed at my core that when I died this will be all I was and all I ever turned out to be, another life given away, another life spent running and chasing until the inevitable bitter end.
I wanted to be more, I always did, but I thought I didn't have it in me, I didn't want it bad enough, but I do.
I begin to believe that maybe I have a chance after all, that maybe I can be more than an addict, that when I take my last breath I will do so knowing I didn't give my life away.
I start to love the little moments that grow together in my sobriety.
When I realize I don't have to lie anymore I feel more relief than the drugs ever brought me. I love having a mind that is spent crafting and retelling false narratives, I love thinking about more than my next high.
I am deeply relieved knowing that I can be happy without the drugs, that I don't need them to be okay. I can feel joy at my core without something to help me get there.
I think most of all my past self would be happy to know that it's over. To know that I meant it and that I wanted it bad enough. I think he would become teary if he heard that I feel more distance between me and the drugs than I have in many months, that they aren't the dominating thought in my mind and the defining factor of my life.