The Definition of Me

Chapter 20: Another One For You

The next morning, Liam took me to my therapist again. I always expect too much of those people, those educated Ph.D. people who know nothing about me and yet are ready to make assumptions. Perhaps it's all I am. Just one big assumption. Some assume I'll end up like my father, a drunk living on the street. Others tend to think of me as simply another messed up teen with a troubling past. Perhaps I am both. Perhaps I am now. How will you ever know how troubled I really am, if you've never met the person to cause me such trouble.

Needless to say, pills haven't started working yet. None of it was working. So my doctor decided to try out a more emotionally-based method of journaling. She told me to keep a diary for at least two weeks and see how it goes. Perhaps she gave up on trying to make me open up to her, so she wants me to open up to a lifeless book of pages. How very thoughtful.

Regardless, the following night I made my first entry.

***

Diary,
Do you truly believe life can get better sometimes? It's so depressing to ever think it won't. But what defines 'better'? Improvement, pragmatism, or does it simply take a deluded mind to know that things are good enough to not be 'better'? Does it take a bottle of whiskey to believe, as every ounce of alcohol goes down your throat, that, at least for the time being, things are okay. 

I believe that alcohol is a form of delusion. It clouds your mind. Without you having to convince yourself that everything is fine, it convinces your brain cells for you. But where do people learn to begin to drink it? Teenage years. And it is exactly where I am now. Does that put me at risk of drinking this poison? Yes, it does. But luckily, because of my small group of non-alcoholic-beverage-preferring friends, and having felt absolutely no peer pressure, I won't attempt to get wasted at a party just to brag about it to idle high school friends who only seem significant for the time being of your 4 years of torture. 4 years of freshman, sophomore, junior and senior bullshit you have to go through to get a piece of paper that confirms you are good enough for the adult world. But are adults good enough for the child world? The world I missed out on because adulthood intertwined with me at a very young age. Alcohol made me grow up, not stay a reckless teenager. It made me suffer, and not stay delusional. It made me cry when the rest were laughing. It did not cloud my mind, it scared it. And the memories it left behind became so vivid my own mind would trap me in its nightmares. It made me feel pain though I never woke up nauseous or with a migraine. I did not have to drink it to know how awful it tastes. The taste of pain. The taste of your own, salty tears dripping down your cheeks and making their way to your sobby nose and dried-out lips. My tears could fill a bottle. Just another bottle. Just another one for you, I'd think, ready to drink as a result of fatherhood. Now if you ever find yourself confused by the message, please mind that I don't have one. My psychologist tells me to write, and I do as adults say, in fear of making my own actions because it would emphasize that now I am the one to have a drink.
For now goodbye,

Rosemary

***

Thank you for reading!
I hope this wasn't a disappointing chapter. Let me know what you think! Do you like this newly-found style of writing or do you miss the old chapters?

With loads of bookworming love,

Barbara xx