I know it’s been a while since i expressed my thoughts in words.
lately it’s been a lot of sucking up, gagging, and vomiting. and lip-biting sort of anxious roller coaster ride through the days.
i am exhausted.
the lack of self control and personal judgment.
jumping into endless, countless hours of work, day after day. falling sick, falling sicker. fatigue, a disease that spreads from mental to physical. i hate every waking moment, but i carry on with the feet-dragging, mindless, soul-sucking routine anyway.
returning home drop-dead drunk.
The difference between being sober and upset, and intoxicated and upset.
coming home half-dead, wanting to sleep on the road, and dropping dead. it’s not nice at all, losing consciousness. but that is one of the few ways to keep the mind safe from the invasive, infinite thoughts towards work and routine and the spiralling purposelessness. i was fortunate that my friend sent me home despite risking being reprimanded by muller. what started of as a not-so normal evening of drinking immediately after working overtime ended of with a prawn that wasn’t even high anymore. it was ugly, i was ugly. broke a glass, crashed in the washroom, locked myself in the cubicle and refused to come out despite the bar having to close – i never thought i would be trash. but i became the ultimate epitome of good-for-nothing that i would have disapprovingly tsk-tsked at, if younger me saw this version of self. then i wanted to sleep on the road, and my friend lifted the burdens of my dragging feet, feet that i couldn’t recognise, that i couldn’t carry the weight of anymore. so i let go, and float, as he made sure i arrived home safely.
the lack of control on sobriety is a polar opposite of prim, proper. it is:
the walls we build crashing down, the layers shedding itself to reveal the bare core, the heart that worked so hard to fix itself scattering into odd-shade shards. the release of distressed outcry, and uncontrollably bursting into tears.
“is it rape? is it rape?” mother’s furiously yelling rings as i lie on the floor near the doorstep, sobbing hopelessly. no, no, no. in a fit of fear and confusion, mother woke Bobo up in hopes that she could communicate with me. After lying unconscious in the toilet, Bobo came in to get me dressed, and asked me what happened. the crying doesn’t stop, and amidst all the drunken tears flooding, i looked at Bobo in the eyes with such clarity. She was truly worried and afraid, although her sleep had been disrupted and she herself had work in the morning.
and then the sobbing worsened.
the last time i threw myself into a living rut as such was back in 2016.
every woe against reality is no longer confined within the walls of the mind – these thoughts are verbalised, and these words i spit on with such disgust: i hate humans! i hate people! i hate! hate! dislike! more and more! never enough!
If the mind stayed impermeable a membrane, the thoughts it harbour will claw itself raw.
still, some things don’t ever seem to change: it begins a heart evening, and there is excessive drinking from pleasure to letting go, restraining drunkenness, and then losing consciousness in a cubicle, throwing up, wanting to sleep, a crying fit and recalling something traumatising, self-beating thoughts on jarring replay – translated into muffled sobs.
what a way to begin 2018, to see history repeating itself like a natural course.
i think of the best times in my life, looking back. doing so is like the post-nauseating bitterness of acid at the back of the mouth, yet a sweet craving for high spirits. But how do we move forward, if the future seems bleak?