Maybe I deserved to be loved in a better way.
I didn’t realize the thousand tiny ways I had been eroded. My self worth had been ground down. There was a constant wordless rebellion in my body, an anger and angst that made me want to flail my fists in rage. It buzzed there intolerably, below my skin. Shoved just south of my awareness.
My agency had all but diasapeared. I felt trapped. The drinking reshaped the rebellion into more palatable flavors for the people around me and for myself. It poured the artifice of fun and abandon on it. That lovely “devil may care.”
I did not, would not admit how bad things were. I remember the first time I was able to verbalize it, the latest degradation being relived quietly in my mind. The small and gentle voice that said maybe this life was keeping me from something else, something easier and less painful. That thought was frightening, in that it tugged at me to make a change, but also very hopeful. A revelation that maybe I deserved to be loved in a better way.
That voice, at first novel in it’s kindness and hope, has grown in me, is easier to hear and to find and to trust. With every act of self-love she grows stronger. Her rebellion has words now and she can use her voice. I love myself in a better way.
Addiction comes in many forms. Poisons creep in slowly, gaining footholds in the places in a life that have been left untended, ignored, or scorned. Attending to the parts of me that hurt, that need expression, that are cold and feel forgotten, with the light of attention is my preservation.
Self-absorbed 