One Year Later

Joni Mitchell’s “Passion Play (When All the Slaves Are Free)” smoothly flutters through the living room speaker. My legs are crossed with a streak of dried blood on my right shin from a morning catfight, moments ago. There is a lot in my head and even more outside. 

My stomach is clenched at the hands of anxiety. There is so much uncertainty; and I wish for two options—neither plausible or beneficial. The first: I wish to return in time. Retrace my steps and make different decisions. Apply some of the lessons and morals of which I’ve accumulated, and set myself up to be better off by today’s time. This is an irrational desire… obviously. The second wish: to have a sturdied lifeboat row me to shore. To find salvation. A refuge, a haven, and all my self and life to be whisked away to the safety of a faraway island. This is another irrational desire… and blatantly deflects any sense of accountability for one’s own actions. For my own actions.

With the knowledge that neither of my two desires will solve or secure me, I somersault smoothly in the air of my imagination. Free-falling into the world of my devotion, I realize after the jump that I embarked on this descent with no parachute, no life line. How on earth will I survive?

One year ago, I was spinning in the backyard of a springtime sunset, alone and depressed. My hair, a mess. Decorated in tie-dye and dreams of suicide. Hungover and burnt out. The burnt butts of cigarette littering my mind with endless contradictions to the thought of survival. Yet, as I spun and danced and allowed the movement of my limbs to execrate the worst within me, I dedicated myself to a dutiful commitment. A commitment beyond transience and sentience. A commitment to myself—my true, inner self. A commitment to sobriety.

Lucy Dacus’ “Addictions” is now the ode to which palpitates my anxieties. 

I wish so desperately to cling to something beyond this world, beyond my self. The truth of the matter is, however, that our ‘self’ is all we retain in this world. The highs and lows; the conception and demise; the sunburnt skin and moonlight kisses… our self is the one constant through it all. 

After having desecrated the shrines of which constructed a complex of equal parts chaos and deity did I accept that the purpose I brood over in this life is in the inherent knowing of self.

The mind is a cavern of psychedelic memorabilia, specifically relative to each individual throughout the course of their life. Even if another were to wander through this channel, the ability to decipher and retain its contents in its truest form is a sacred act only capable by the one within which the channel lies. 

Fuck, I am getting too conceptual. All this to be said: thank you. Here’s to one year of sobriety and not knowing what the future holds. 

Aretha Franklin’s “I've Been Loving You Too Long” ushers me to a swooning exit.