• Kathryn Wright

Dancing With Tears in My Eyes

The funniest part of quarantine, is that I keep complaining I have "nothing to do" (dramatic faint to the floor)...when really, all I should be doing is writing.

Writing has always been carthartic for me.

Blogging is therapy.

So, when I started this was a therapy session for myself. "If no one reads it, fuck it because I'm doing this for me."

And while parts of that are still true, I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy the fact that it was being read by...whomever is reading this.

It's kind of like the people that post on Facebook about how "It felt so good to pay it forward today...I paid for the person's Starbucks in the drive through. Do something good today!"

My hero. Saving the world one latte at a time. Nelson Mandela would be so proud.

First of all,'re 100% lying to yourself if you can't admit that you did this for likes.

...I mean, thanks for the free Starbucks tho.

It's just that it would have been nice to know you were paying for this, because I would have ordered two.


Kind of.

ORRR it's like the people that "donate" to a school or hospital, only to have the damn building named after them.

I mean I'm not judging, because TBH that's the ultimate power move. Something I aspire to one day.

But given current circumstances, the only building I can afford would be made out of legos.

...And my cats would knock that over. So I think I'll pass for now.

(Also, I am in no way comparing my cynical little internet blog to saving lives and building a hospital wing or a campus lab. I'm exaggerating for dramatic effect. Effective tho, I think.)

So, yeah.

I will admit that I do enjoy my blog being read. I enjoy your messages of inspiration, I love reading that I made you laugh and cry and connect and relate.

Or maybe, just maybe you're here because you hate my guts, you're enjoying my fall from grace, and are relishing in my mistakes.

Either way. It's still getting read...and that is something that makes me happy.

So, I write, I cuss, I lament, I...overshare.

Oversharing is very on brand for me. Always has been, always will be.

For example, I had to explain to my roommate why I was (very loudly...oops) talking about blow jobs on FaceTime on our front porch the other day.

Apparently saying "it's DJ" is not a satisfactory answer. Ironically, if you know's the only answer.

Also, when you are informed that you were overheard by people walking by and your response is "oops," that is even less satisfactory than the previous explanation.

So yeah. Like I said. I overshare.

Fun fact...did you know that quarantine has not only affected basic supplies such as flour, and cleaning supplies....but also VIBRATORS??

Because God hates me, she decided to make mine crap out during a fucking quarantine.

So long story short, I now find myself not only horny, but horny AND pissed off....not a good combination. It's a lethal combination, TBH. I'm convinced most, if not ALL stories of women murdering their husbands/lovers involve sexual frustration.

An orgasm a day keeps the life sentence away. Unless you happen to have pet tigers and a septic tank, that is.


Not only is Bethenny Frankel not returning to the housewives, not only am I out of flour and can't find any anywhere (I was at this point, thank god I finally found some), not only because my cats turned my bathroom into my own personal Nagasaki and knocked my makeup off the counter and it went EVERYWHERE...but now because the timing could LITERALLY NOT BE ANY WORSE, I find myself on fucking Adam and Eve and I'm staring at a giant red banner saying "due to a high volume of orders due to COVOID 19, expect shipping to be delayed by 5 days."

FIVE FUCKING DAYS. And that's on TOP of the regular shipping. Why not make it a fucking year.

I mean, I have nothing but time to kill so I can old school this shit, but why do all the work if I don't have to. Amirite?

Desperate times we live in, folks. Desperate times.

Once I calmed down, I realized that at least people are being sensible. We're all in this together.

I could talk about this forever, because I hold very strong opinions on the powers of the female orgasm...but I won't get carried away here. That's probably enough oversharing for one day.

...All I'm saying is that everyone would be a lot happier if they were happening on the reg.

I should segway into the real point of this blog, but Pandora's box has been opened. So stop reading, or keep reading and don't complain.

Hey, in my last blog post I talked about eating ass...or alluded to it at the very least. So buckle up, here's some more NSFW content.

...actually that's not even a thing, cause isn't everyone working from home?

And also, the fact that I even have to give a disclaimer is part of the problem.

Okay, YES. I understand some people think its a private thing and that shouldn't be talked about blah blah blah. Fine. Clearly that doesn't apply to me, much to the chagrin of my parents. And probably my roommate. I have a feeling I'm going to have a lot of explaining to do after this one.

I seriously doubt when they encouraged me to blog...this is what they had in mind.


But LIKE.I.WAS.SAYING. If you don't want to talk about it, fine.


I repeat.

BUT. (Okay, now that word just looks weird.)

*I* have determined that a large proportion of those that "don't want to talk about it" "don't want to talk about it because they don't/WON'T do it."

A...What are you thinking.

B...Actually this makes much more sense, because you're obviously not thinking about what you're not missing, because if you knew what you were missing this wouldn't even be a conversation.

And C...there is a very special place in hell reserved for women that fake orgasms.

Like, I get it. Sometimes, it's just easier to resign to the fact that that shit ain't gonna happen, and might as well make it easier and exciting for everyone involved.

But if im fucking a grown ass man that climaxes and has the audacity to act like he just rocked my world, when in reality he treated my box like he was stuffing a chicken...that's highly problematic. Like...really?

I mean honestly, there are times that google maps could more accurately find what needs to be found. I mean it's basic anatomy.


Two explanations. Either you're a virgin, or you don't know what you've been doing because you've been lied to.

...and clearly we're not in high school. So...ladies. I'm going to have to partly blame you.

And everyone is different. So if YOU don't even know how YOU are they supposed to? Especially when our society has taught us we're supposed to put their egos in front of our O's....

Um, take a fucking pause. Ladies, teach men what they need to know.

Take back the power, and take matters into your own hands. Interpret that as you may.

Thats all I'm saying.

...I'm excited to see how many frail male egos I trigger with this statement.

And no, I'm not going to fuck you so you can "show me what I'm missing" (yes, this disclaimer is necessary...unfortunately.)


Back to my original point. Oversharing. Writing. Writing and oversharing.

When I was younger, I reached out to someone very close to me...and was told that depression isn't real. I believe "I don't understand how people need anti-depressants. If you're sad, just be happy" was the exact phrase used.

When you combine quarantine, sobriety, life changes, and cancer, along with everything else...all I do is think.

The difficult thing about this kind of clarity, is that it's not just black and white.

Well it is, and it isn't.

I feel like I'm walking on a tightrope, trying to balance, wavering side to side trying not to fall off.

And while I have no problem oversharing, part of my problem for YEARS is that I didn't deal with my problems and just ignored them until everything blew up in my face.

I know part of my healing is dealing with my sobriety head on. It's just, that while all I should be doing is writing and healing, I just have moments where I'm overwhelmed. I feel like I'm naked standing in a sea of people.

Except I'm so much more exposed, because it's my soul that I'm baring...not just my blinding pale ass.

I understand that it is imperative that I take responsibility for my own actions, and I could have reacted to many (and sadly, if not all) situations in a different (healthier) way.

I was raised with the priniciples of personal responsibility and accountability.

So I need to, and am trying to accept the fact that I am on a course that is only a product of the choices I have made. Every action has a reaction, every reaction has a consequence.

It's the simplicities that always ring so true.

However, I feel like I would be doing myself a disservice if I didn't acknowledge that there are certain key moments in my life that affected me. Being told to "be happy" was one of them. One of several moments I internalized, that then became the silent voice in the back of my head I wasn't even aware was there.

Or maybe it was there, but when you're on a path of selfish self-destruction....let's just say I was much more willing to listen to Jose Cuervo or Jack Daniels over my own fucking conscience.

"Be happy."

I realize now this was more of a generational response than anything.

And, admittedly, there is no way this "advice" would have been solicited had I explained myself and what I really needed. Which was help. I was starting to spin out, but so focused on acting like I had it all together.

So for the sake of full rational thought, I shouldn't have listened to this and got the help I needed. But I had finally come out on the other side of a 3 year abusive relationship, and to be honest, I didn't think I was worth saving.

I was sad. I was depressed.

I didn't want to be sad or depressed any more. So I became happy.

And what made me happy? Being social. Being surrounded by friends.

Take that, add a few cocktails, add a few more...and keep adding them until you never stop.

Now, you're sitting at the bottom, alone...and all that's left is an empty bottle and a shell of your former self. And by "you're"...I so fully mean me.

Be happy my fucking ass.

I am a perfect example of why major storms are named after people. I am a human fucking hurricane.

And speaking of storms, I was the perfect storm waiting to happen.

I've been over this before, so I'm not going to ramble on and on about it...especially because it makes me sound like a "spoiled brat" as my mom likes to call me ( raised me, so...). And maybe I am. And I get uncomfortable writing it, because I can already summarize the thought rolling through your head.

"Oh boo hoo, the poor little white girl had a good time growing up and the world is hard. Boo fucking hoo, cry me a river."


But, this is my reality, and that's all I can speak about. (My blog, my white privilege.)

So yeah. Great childhood. Stable home life, church on Sundays, I loved my parents, my mom was my best friend, my dad was (still is) the best man I have ever known, and I had the best baby brother in the world (yup, fucked that one up too.)

Like I said, it's certainly a fall from grace....Or wherever the fuck it was I started.

I know the further you get away from a situation, the easier it is to remember the good times as opposed to the bad times (I am notorious for hooking up with my ex's because I think things aren't that bad anymore...God, if I keep making myself cringe this much I'm going to need Botox, STAT) so I'm not blind to the fact that obviously every day wasn't fucking perfect, and like anyone else, I had my share of problems.

But I can say, without a shadow of a doubt, that aside from my best friend being diagnosed with cancer...from the day I was born until I left for college...on the grand scale of the world being a dark and scary life was perfect little bubble.

I still remember the day I got that call.

It's always the traumatic moments that instantly take you back. Kind of like the day I was diagnosed. 9/11. The day I got the call about Gabby. The day I was raped.

So I'm so grateful and thankful that I had what I had growing up.

I just wasn't prepared for the real world to be so...hard.

And clearly, this is just a manifestation of my own internal issues. My brother was raised under the same roof, and he 100% has his act together.

...At least one of us can make my parents proud.

So yeah. When things became hard, I became "happy." And being "happy" became my excuse. Every negative thing I did to myself and those around me was "okay."

Why? Because I was having fun, and I was being happy.

If you haven't figured this out by now, I'm probably the most selfish person to ever grace this planet with my miserable existence.

Aka...I drank.

When you're younger, it's a social thing. Especially in the town I went to school's definitely a "college town."

But alcoholism runs in my family. Combined with (undiagnosed) manic depression, an addictive personality, and neuroticism (the psych personality trait, I don't mean this as a colloquialism), add in a bit of rebellion and an ex that shatters your was the perfect fucking storm.

And then time passes by, mistakes start to add up, and I realized I wasn't happy anymore.

I wasn't happy at all.

The problem was, my life was so fucked at this point (or so I thought)...that the night I was raped, I made a decision.

I wanted to die.

I was having a conversation a while back with my roommate (mid rock bottom), and I told him this, and he said "No, you probably just couldn't live with the way you were living."

Yes, what he was saying was true. But it was also true that I wanted to die.

I was so unhappy, I was so depressed, I was so broken, that I actually wanted to die. Physically. Spiritually. Emotionally. All of it. I wanted to die.

I keep repeating that, because it's imperative that you know how serious I am about this statement.

I literally wanted to die.

I wanted to flatline.

I wanted it to all end.

I cannot even express how much and how serious I am about this. It's going to sound like an excuse. It's not. It's an explanation. Because when it comes to the things I've done, the pain I've caused...there needs to be an explanation.

You asked why. This is it. This is the why. I wanted to die.

The night I was raped, I somehow made it back to my studio apartment.

Btw, this is a lot of repressed memory forgive me if this part is disjointed, because I don't think I have it in me to go back and edit this section.

I remember I walked in and slid to the floor.

I just remember sitting. I don't know how much time passed.. Obviously I didn't sit there for a week, but I know it was a full week before I even checked my phone or left my apartment.

I remember it being light, then dark. It was so itchy.

I had dried blood all over me. Mine, his. I had to shower.

I didn't even put 2 + 2 together why it was hard to see. When I walked in the bathroom, one of my eyes was swollen shut.

My neck was black and blue and purple.

Every part of my body was cut, scraped, bruised or dirty...except for my lips.

I had mascara all over my face. My glitter eyeshadow was in my hair.

But my lips were untouched.

"I don't kiss whores." No, apparently you just rape them.

I was wearing Red Ruby Woo MAC lipstick. It was a present from my brother and his gf at the time. It was the only part of me that wasn't damaged that night.

...So, I made the decision that I was going to kill myself.

I had Lana Del Rey playing on a loop. I didn't check my phone.

I didn't drink either (at this point). I wanted to be clear headed.

I mean, offing yourself is kind of a big I wanted to make sure that I actually meant it.

First, I had to figure out how...I knew it was either pills or cutting my wrists.

Unfortunately the strongest thing I had in my medicine cabinet was Advil, and I didn't even have enough to do any real damage.

That left me with my second option. A knife.

It was then, that I thought about that lipstick.

I thought about my brother.

I thought about my parents too, and a lot about them. But I just kept thinking about my brother.

An argument (and a very rational one) could be made that I wasn't really thinking about them, because I landed on a third decision...and ultimately, I wasn't thinking about anyone but myself. Because if you really are thinking about what I decided on, I wasn't thinking about them at all.

I mean I was...but clearly the only outcome of this was broken hearts and shattered relationships.

But to me, it all made sense. In some way it still makes sense, because I'm serious when I say I wanted to die.

Just somehow the thought of them getting a call that I slit my wrists and was lying dead for days in my apartment was too much to bear. Also, I was too chicken to actually kill myself instantly.

So now, I wanted to die. I was going to die. But I couldn't bring myself to do it instantly.

So, the third and final option I chose...was to do it as fast as I possibly could over time.

Every action has a reaction. Every reaction has a consequence.

What consequences? I was going to die before I had to deal with them.

Clearly this plan was flawed from the start...I think any plan that involves taking your own life is. Because not am I only still ALIVE and now sober and dealing with said consequences, but so is everyone else that was in the path of my human fucking hurricane.

Broken friendships, broken relationships. Tears, and more tears.

I want to say I didn't care who I was hurting or who I took down on my years and years long suicide attempt.

From a rational perspective, I obviously didn't.

But in someway I did...and seeing clearly with newfound clarity...I realize that I did care the entire time. But when you're wanting to die, and living...praying that there's not a tomorrow, caring about what I did only led to more shame and self-loathing that intensified my spiral towards rock bottom.

I had moments where I wanted to change, but now there was REALLY no coming back from my mistakes and what I had done.

The cancer diagnosis was the cherry on top.

I knew there was something wrong with me long before I even went in to get checked.

I was hoping it would take me out before I had to go in.

But it didn't. Neither did the booze I was guzzling or the drugs I was doing, or anything else I did.

I couldn't even KILL myself properly. Talk about pathetic.

Then the pain started becoming overwhelming, even with the booze which I was using to simultaneously cope with my physical pain AND attempt to drink myself to death (I had stopped the drugs before this point) and I had to go in. I had moments where I could hardly walk at this point.

What do cancer diagnoses generally look like?

While everyone is different, they generally include the will to live.

They generally include family and the resolve to "I'll beat this."

And this, where mine is different.

Because my story included none of those things...until now. I would encourage you to keep reading, because this is important to the overall story.

I considered my diagnosis to be a blessing from God. Which, was rather ironic in itself, considering the fact that I spent all my time saying there's not a God, while simultaneously blaming him for everything wrong in my life.

I mean, I had to stay on brand...denial and misplacing blame was all I had anymore. Well, that and alcohol.

I knew a big part of my illness was a) not dealing with being raped, and b) not going in when I was first symptomatic. It would have been simple, a procedure combined with chemo/radiation and I would have been done.

But if I had gone in, that would have ruined my plan to die. I would have lived...and lived for what?

Myself? No, I couldn't live for myself or with myself for the things that I had done.

Maybe my diagnosis could be my one saving grace. Something that helped me finally sleep at night. I didn't have to deal with the soul crushing thought of my parents crying over a dead body they had to ID in the morgue from someone who drank herself to death, OD'ed, or slit her wrists.

I died of cancer.

This thought helped me immensely. Like I said, none of this makes sense, but somehow makes all the sense in the world.

I did a consultation with my doctor, and we formed a plan for treatment.

I didn't tell her I had no intention of following through with all of it, but I knew I had to do part of it.

Selfishly, because I was in so much pain I couldn't stand it, and partly because I knew I had to do SOMETHING for my parents, my brother, my friends, my anyone that knew me...after everything, I owed them at least that.

I thought the day my friend had cancer was the worst day of my life.

I thought the night my ex boyfriend strangled me in the car was the worst day of my life.

I thought the day I found out about Gabby was the worst day of my life.

I thought the day I was raped was the worst day of my life.

The worst day of my life, was doing chemotherapy...alone.

I sat in a room full of people, some surrounded by family and friends with drugs being pumped into my system, to save a life that I decided wasn't worth saving...alone.

I refused to let my family come with me.

My mom cried, begged, pleaded with me to let her come.

She wanted to help. It was the only way she knew how. It's the only way she's ever known.

Help her baby girl. Help her only daughter.

Help...someone who didn't even want help.

I didn't deserve to live.

I was a bottom feeder, a grifter, human fucking hurricane.

I couldn't even look myself in the mirror at this point. I was staring at a shell of a broken, manipulative, raging alcoholic...that deserved everything I had coming to me.

There's a reason they used to publicly execute people.

I not only wanted to die...but I deserved to die.

The ironic part of my story, is that while I was sitting in that room doing treatment...a part of me wanted to live.

I didn't deserve to live. And I wanted to die. But...I wanted to live.

But if I lived...what did I have to live for?

The obvious answer is my family. My friends. For me. But fuck, I wasn't worth saving. I wasn't worth it. I was disgusted with myself, with my behavior.

I refused to let my mom come with me, because bringing her with me meant that I would have to go back to the beginning.

I would have to go back to the night I was raped...something I never told her about.

I would have to explain that everything her and dad did to help over the years was pointless, because I wanted to die.

And now, when I finally found even a piece of the will to live...I was now really, possibly going to die. The irony is not lost on me.

I then rationalized with myself that I didn't actually want to was simply a biological, chemical reaction in my brain...the same one that caused me to not slit my wrists that night.

And if I did live, what was the fucking plan?

My own brother hates me, I can't speak to my parents without my mom crying...or us fighting.

Everyone that knows me hates me...I'm not fucking worth saving.

But if I can at least give the appearance of trying to now somewhat save myself, not that my parents will sleep any easier at night...but at least it was cancer that killed me.

If I can control the story, and keep them from finding out that if I had tried to save myself a long time ago...and gone into the doctor when I should have, then I can die at least knowing that all they know is that my story is that I was a cancer victim and lost my fight.

I should have fought for myself. I should have fought for them. I should have fought for my brother. I should have fought for my nephews.

But I was a horrible fucking person. I didn't deserve forgiveness. And ultimately, I wasn't ready to give up drinking.

Depressed people drink to cope, and god knows now...more than ever, was I depressed.

"Am I dead? Or is this one of those dreams? Those horrible dreams that seem like they last forever? If I am alive, why? Why? If there is a God or whatever, something, somewhere, why have I been abandoned by everyone and everything I've ever known? I've ever loved? Stranded. What is the lesson? What is the point? God, give me a sign, or I have to give up. I can't do this anymore. Please just let me die. Being alive hurts too much."

Well...I got my sign.

Like many things in my life, it made no sense. It still doesn't. But, it's helped me get to this point.

It's led me to this post.

Which...leaves me scared.

Scared. Embarrassed. Ashamed. Soul-crushingly apologetic.

Happy. Terrified. Less-self loathing and more self-wanting. Free. Liberated. Clear headed.

Sad. Happy. Sober.

And most importantly, it gave me the will to live.

Right about when I was about to pull the plug on treatment and chemo and doctors appointments...I formed a friendship.

The age difference alone make its rather unconventional.

The "voice of the valley" Don't worry, we don't quite get it either.

But somehow, our mutual love of animals (and my newfound love of cats), our inexplicable affinity for skull decor and hatred for mayo, along with our love of The Pretty Things and Bowie, Jeff Beck and The Rolling works.

At least, it worked on me. I wanted to live.

"Wait, you live with who?"

This only makes sense if you're local.

"Wait, you live with Ray Appleton?, the radio guy?"

"Yes. That Ray Appleton."

It was perfect. He was closer to my treatment. I fell in love with his cats, he fell in love with my dog.

He gave me the will to live. Most importantly, the want to will to live.

Im sure this is the part of the story where it should be so fucking glaringly obvious that that the will to live should at the very least come from my family.

And yes, that's true.

But here's the thing. My path of self destruction and self loathing was so deep, so broken...that I couldn't even fathom a scenario where they would completely forgive me.

He didn't know my past, he didn't know how broken I was.

I could be a new me. I could change.

But if there's one thing I'm good's fucking up my own life.

When I was in college, I started watching Sons of Anarchy. Ask anyone that knows me...I was obsessed with Gemma Teller.

When I watched Disney movies, I never wanted to be cinderella. I loved Cruella DeVille, Ursula, Maleficent. NO...not the skinning puppies part. But I loved me a good (faux) fur coat, red lipstick and long cigarette holder.

In Harry Potter, I loved Bellatrix Lestrange. Game of Thrones? Cersei fucking Lannister.

I loved myself a good villain.

The psychology here is so fucking simplistic, it's almost laughable.

The thing is, even if it's Psych 101...the thing is, you still have to open the fucking book.

I AM the villain in my story. And maybe, yours too.

Here's the thing about being a villain.

You can either continue to be one, or you can become one of the good ones.

I'm never going to be Cinderella. I'm not made for picket fences. I'm never going to the the girl in white.

The thing is though, is that I am finally no longer the villain in my story.

Last year, and up until last month...was the hardest part of my life that I have ever experienced.

I thought it took Ray for me to change.

And change, I did.

"I once had dreams of becoming a beautiful poet.

But upon an unfortunate series of events saw those dreams dashed and divided like a million stars in the night sky...

That I wished on over and over again, sparkling and broken.

But I didn’t really mind because I knew that it takes getting everything you ever wanted and then losing it to know what true freedom is.

When the people I used to know found out what I had been doing how I had been living, they asked me why...but there’s no use in talking to people who have a home.

They have no idea what its like to seek safety in other people,

For home to be wherever you lie your head.

I was always an unusual girl...

My mother told me that I had a chameleon soul

No moral compass pointing due north

No fixed personality...

Just an inner indecisivenessthat was as wide and as wavering as the ocean.

And if I said I didn’t plan for it to turn out this way I’d be lying...

Because I was born to be the other woman.

Who belonged to no one,

Who belonged to everyone.

Who had nothing...

Who wanted everything.

With a fire for every experience and an obsession for freedom that terrified me to the point that I couldn’t even talk about it,

And pushed me to a nomadic point of madness that both dazzled and dizzied me."

When I moved in, I saw a piece of the life that I had unknowingly been searching for.

Stability. A fresh start.

I committed myself to change. I committed myself to doctor appointments and chemo and treatment and the fucking will to live.

For me, for him, for my animals, for my friends, for my family.

But I was denying the missing part of the puzzle piece.

I am a fucking alcoholic. No if's, no and's, no but's.

And like all alcoholics...I am a selfish asshole that puts myself before others.

My will to live, my will to change was prey to the desire to drink.

And unfortunately, I hadn't put in the self work TO change. The problem is, I thought I did. I was HAPPY.

I mean, finally...and we're talking about like since high school, I was finally happy.

The problem is, I still hadn't admitted to myself that I had a drinking problem.

So I drank.

I went to doctor appointments, and I drank some more.

And treatment started getting scarier. And that fucking voice to drink to cope was louder and louder and louder.

Doctor appointments started becoming scarier. Treatment became harder.

And, my past became louder and louder.

My will to live was once again outweighed my the mistakes I had made and the problems I had caused.

My rationalizations became inexplicable.

And at the end of the day, all I could think about was my family, my friends and everything I had done.

And it ultimately came down to continue treatment to (possibly) save my life....or drink.

My life was crashing around me. The lies and manipulation and broken hearts were crushing me.

I had hurt everyone I had ever known...and for what? Why try and save my life that's not even worth saving?

And what was the fucking point of trying to KILL myself? The drugs? The booze? The self hatred and anger and wasted time?

I chickened out. Once again, when presented with the fucking obvious, I fucked my life up. I decided to stick to my original plan, and that was to off myself. But this time, I was actually going to fucking do it.

I was going to stop treatment, and commit myself to fucking death. It'd be a lot easier on everyone...right?

The funny part of this story (and I say funny in the most ironic sense, because trust me...this is literally ANYTHING BUT) is that this STILL WASN'T ROCK BOTTOM.

That, ladies and gentleman...occurred 1 month and 2 days ago.

The detail that has been left out to many to you, is that along with cancer and quitting treatment, a major part of the reason I was hospitalized in December was because my plan to kill myself from drinking too much was finally, almost successful.

I spent 10 days in the hospital with drinking induced pancreatitis...which outed my dirty little secret to my roommate, family...and my best friend.

My best friend flew down from Seattle to see me.

It was Christmas time.

My roommate called her to come down.

They both thought I was dying.

I was.

What they didn't know, or knew but didn't want to admit it (like my parents) my drinking problem.

The thing is, it's easy to manipulate people that want to see the best in you.

My parents, my roommate, my friends...myself.

So getting out of the hospital ON CHRISTMAS should be fucking rock bottom. Right?

Well to anyone else, probably.

As my mother likes to say, I insist on doing everything the hard way (probably the one thing we can agree on), so of course...I had to fuck up a final time.

Thankfully, this time actually worked.

So its the day after Christmas. I'm embarrassed, angry, pissed off at everyone and myself and God and probably even fucking Santa Clause.

I can't walk.

My mom, my OWN FUCKING know, the one I cussed out of the hospital room lets me come home and LITERALLY wipes my own ass because I'm so sick I can't even stand up.

Two things I need to do. A) DON'T drink. B) get treatment

I don't drink. I don't need to drink. I just drank because I wanted to die...I don't NEED to drink. So, I don't drink.

The nice part about being an addict, is that I've always been a very good one. So if it's not drinking...I now choose to turn to pain pills.

Hate me yet?

It's okay, I do too.

But I'm not drinking! So yay me!

"I mean sure, I shot the guy...but no one DIED."

...same logic.

I have scans done that show things have spread. Once again...I've fucked myself.

The pill thing scared myself into admitting I have a serious fucking problem. (Because apparently almost dying doesn't do it.)

But, I am now presented with two options.

Deal with the once again, long, scary road of treatment with no guarantee...or, I can self medicate.

I can drink.

Because if there's one thing I'm great's drinking.

I wasn't wanting to that's progress. But, I wasn't really wanting to live either.

So I started drinking again.

This is about the time that COVOID popped on the radar. Nothing major, but it was being talked about.

This time was the fast descent to rock bottom.

I started drinking when I went to LA.

Three weeks of drinking...and I had pancreatitis again.

Rock bottom included guzzling tequila without it even making it half-way down my throat before I choked and threw up all over myself.

Rock bottom included a lot of yelling and fighting with all parties involved.

Rock bottom was fucking rock bottom.

But...I finally found bottom. I repeat...*I* found it.

Everyone else around me had seen it...but I had to find it for myself.

For years I've blamed everyone else.

Sure, I've blamed myself...but I blamed my rapist. I blamed my ex. I blamed sad things that happened "to me," I blamed my parents for enabling me, blamed people, blamed god...blamed everyone but myself.

Looking back, there is a DIRECT correlation between my behavior changing, and losing who I was and alcohol. It was when I took my first sip of beer at a Carrie Underwood concert when I was 17.

And the booze never stopped...until one month and 2 days ago.

I'm not trying to transfer all blame onto alcohol...because it's me.

I've received the message loud and clear.

Something I also received...and something that can only be explained by I received forgiveness.

I don't know why. God only knows, because I sure as hell know I don't fucking deserve it.

And I sit and cry often, because I'm now dealing with the path I've left, and the destruction I've caused. Not only to myself...but others. So. Many. Others.

But my roommate forgave me, and most importantly...I forgave myself.

Now let me be clear...I won't ever be able to forgive myself for the things that I've done, the people I've hurt...or truthfully, for this battle that I'm now going to have to fight to save my life...when this didn't have to be a fucking issue if I had dealt with this years ago.

But, I have forgiven myself in the sense that I'm not going to turn to alcohol to deal with my grief and pain.

This isn't going to make sense unless you've been through this kind of personal transformation.

I literally feel like I'm 17 again.

God knows I'm not.

But I'm happy. I'm finding joy in the things I used to find joy in. I find overwhelming happiness in the small things. And the big things.

I found myself again.

I'm happy.

I'm truly, overwhelmingly happy. I smile more often. I laugh a lot. I love the life I have here, and find strength and joy in the forgiveness I have received and the fresh start I have been given.

If you knew me when I was 15-16? That's who I am again.

I'm older. I'm wiser. I wear a lot more black and every third word out of my mouth needs to be censored.

But...I've found myself.

The problem with this, is that while I have found this clarity...healing takes time. Some, can find the ability to forgive. Some wounds cut too deep. And that's something I have to live with. Every second of every day.

I have to live with my past and it's really fucking hard. It's really fucking painful.

But now, I have to focus on getting better. One day at a time. I can do this. I WILL do this. God knows its going to be the fucking hardest thing I've ever done. But I'm going to do this.

Im going to fucking live.

I'm going to fucking change.

I have changed.

I have hope. I have joy. I have sobriety. I am happy. I am so fucking happy.

I found myself again.

I've picked up all the broken dirty pieces of myself, and am slowly putting them back together.

So for right now, if you need'll find me dancing.

Dancing...with tears in my eyes.


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