A morning after like new, like maybe the night had not happened and maybe, maybe I had not done the things I thought I’d done. It was 4 in the afternoon when my roommate woke me up. Somebody from work had contacted him. And fucking A what was wrong with me and what the fuck did I do this time and who in the hell did I let in our house last night and if I find no excuse this time I’m fired and I have no excuse. I was still drunk, or just fucked up. I didn’t know if it was the pills or if it was the liter of whiskey I’d downed at 5am when I decided I was done being conscious.
I drove myself to work anyway, stumbled in the doorway. The world was shifting under my feet, I could feel it shaking and slippery. My manager took one look at me and told me to get the fuck out.
I went home and tried to process what had happened. Where things had turned away from fun. My mind was spots of light and a broken switch. My bed was rumpled sheets and I didn’t want to touch them. In fact, I wanted to burn them. And I wanted to throw that empty bottle against the wall. And I wanted to purge all of this poison from my system. I wanted to be a normal human being again, but had no idea how to get there.
It dawned on me that I was lucky I woke up that day. I had half-ideas of the words and thoughts that had rolled and spit their way through my brain the night before, after the party died, after I was left alone. They scared me. They weren’t the sort of thoughts a sane person thought. They weren’t the sort of thoughts somebody who wanted to live thought. When had everything I loved turned into everything I hated? Who was I? What had once been a grand social experiment had since consumed my very existence. I was roiling destruction. I finally was Rimbaud’s great invalid, great criminal, great accursed, and I fucking hated myself. No amount of bleach in the world could have make that skin feel clean. I wanted to burn off all of the metaphorical dirt with a bath of acid. I couldn’t.
I had to figure out how to reconcile this existence with the person that I wanted to be, because I couldn’t live like that anymore. As half human. In primal disorder. I couldn’t deal with the great pressure of shame every morning. Of half-assing existence. Of running away. I was tired of being weak – in body, in mind, and in will. I was tired of surrounding myself with people that only reinforced my tendency towards chaos and loss and apathy. I had wasted so many dollars. I had wasted so many nights. I had wasted so many brain cells. I had, like a vasectomy, cut parts of myself off; emotion, feeling, caring, everything genuine. I had lost any sense of control, given it up, given up on sense. Even then, in this day after, in evening light, I couldn’t think straight. All my palate craved was liquor and all my body craved was sleep and all my self craved was escape.
But this was not me. This was not what I wanted. I wanted to gain experience and bring that back to the light. I wanted to be a voice. I wanted to be the words that others lived by. I wanted to be inspiration. I wanted to be revolution.
When I was given an out, I took it. I entered my parents arms and cried until I could speak and when I could I didn’t want to. I just wanted to be free. And with the help of others, I was. And today, with a clear mind and obstinate goals, I can walk forward shamelessly into daylight. I can say with conviction that I want to be alive, that I should be alive, that I am meant for grander things and greater constructs. Revolution. I make my own decisions with care. I am connected. I am not ready to burn out or fade away. I am the fucking sun, bright and constant and leaving spots on your retina. I am a fucking force. And I refuse to accept anything less of myself ever again. Life is not a waste. Don’t treat it like garbage. Find your reason to be alive.