Moss and Mushrooms

Libraries and coffee shops

A mixed chapter.
TW: drug mentions, isolation, hallucinations

The mirror
I stand in a dimly lit attic, I notice a mirror with an intricate, beautifully carved brown frame.
I wipe off all the dust, slowly and methodically.
It's just me today.
I find myself wiping the last inch of dust, I step back from the mirror and look at my reflection.
The mirror tells a vivid story, it tells a story of not knowing how to describe this ache in my stomach, it tells a story of not seeing things the way the noisy crowd did.
I watch as conversations are displayed like a movie, as I watch I realize I have never held the perspective I do now, despite it always lingering, despite being unable to separate myself from it.
The mirror tells me stories of saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, of missing the punch line, of complete confusion and misunderstanding.
I stare into the mirror a little more, I sit on the floor and scoot a little closer.
I see myself talking about things at length, I see myself annoying others with my level of elation, but of course, I was blissfully unaware.
I relive the hours upon hours of passion as my heart pumps limerence through my blood, I reminisce on the moments of pure dedication to the things I love.
I watch myself go to a concert or the grocery store or to a gathering, I remember what it's like to be confused and disheartened without even realizing it, I remember the relief of falling into my bed and for the first time today sitting in the quiet.
I always knew something was abnormal, before I could ever put words to it I knew. I asked myself the same questions over and over again, I asked myself why when I woke up in the morning, I asked myself why late at night. The questions were relentless and never ending, but today I see in front of this mirror of my mind and I know why.

Green house
I walk outside to the AA garden, I feel the sun on my skin and see the hopeful daisies and green vines that climb up the white walls of my house and towards the sun.
I sit in front of the school garden, I admire the saplings and thorny yet beautiful red roses.
The flower bed nearest to my house is the writing garden, I see dozens of different colors of plants, it's a lively scene.
The false perceptions are another garden, they are another facet of my life, a facet with both comfort and fear.
I stare at the venus fly trap that will turn you inside out just to disregard you, I see the sunflowers that look upwards providing a sense of hope and safety.
Sometimes the hallucinations fill me with discomfort, knowing that I am this way leaves an ache in my stomach, knowing that I am not normal.
It is not normal for everything you see to be endlessly distorted, it is strange to see people standing around you when no one is there.
Sometimes they are a lullaby that lulls me to sleep, somewhat of a melody or sense of protection.
With each of these gardens lives its own ecosystem that contains both the beautiful and the ugly.

Severed ties
She was my best friend, I saw her more than anyone else, I sent her dozens of messages daily, she was very special to me, and I thought things would always be this way.
One month, a month I cannot recall, I would start drinking again, the same story would be retold again and again, always worse never better.
In addiction I watched slowly as anything and everything would rank lower than the drugs.
I would find myself not really caring about anything else, entirely willing to throw it all away.
I didn't realize how selfish I had become until it was over, I never thought about how she felt, it never crossed my mind to question how the things I did would spill and stain.
One day I would come out of it, I would sit with the reality of the things I had done, and I would realize that she may not come back.

Autumn rain
I drink my coffee with milk but no sugar.
I write lengthy journal entries.
I stay up to the early hours of the morning working on my poetry book
I read in the moments between.
I carry a cross body leather bag that holds my books and diaries.
I wear dress pants and sweaters.
I choose my wording carefully.
I listen to classical music at all hours.

Isolation
Sometimes I know why.
When I realize I have made a mistake I sit with it, because if I don't I will repeat it.
I keep the photographs, I don't let myself forget it.
I don't often feel lonely, I find comfort in being on my own, but sometimes I am overwhelmed by a sense of rejection.
I don't know why I exist on the outskirts, I don't know why I am never close to the people my age.
I try to be kind and listen, I try to be fun and not talk about the heavy things too much, but I am unsure what the distance is caused by.
Maybe I'm not trying hard enough. Maybe I'm coming on too strong. Maybe I complain too much.
I sent out birthday invites to all of my friends and I worry I will have a hollow day, a day when no one wants to come by, a day when it settles in that I am alone.
I would love to talk to people, I would love to slowly share our secrets and feel my skin touch theirs.
I would send them messages every day, we would go out for coffee and to thrift shops, but for now I am on my own.

Two hundred and thirty three days
As time passes I find myself enjoying my sobriety more and more.
Each day is more distance between us, a little while longer since my last time.
I start to miss it less, I begin to have more clarity on the life I was living.
I am slowly starting to move on, that each month that passes I think about it less, that I want it less than I did before.
I realize that it's more than not getting high, but becoming a better man.
I am overwhelmed by remorse for things I have done, but it provides a reminder of what I do not wish to repeat.
Instead of romanticizing the drawn out suicide I see the beauty of remaining abstinent.
I don't have to give away any more of my life. I can be free if I let myself. This does not have to be the thing that defines me.