Going to the beach for the weekend. My first sober beach weekend in over two decades. It’s a strange thing when you realize you are old enough to have that many years of excessive drinking under your belt. Drinking was a part of every thing. Happy or sad or bored or horny or whatever the fuck else. I hold the tragedy of that in my ribcage, in my blood. It feels heavy like a soaking rain. My whole body is alive with the metallic disgusting weight of it.
And yet. And still. And now. I stare up into the robin’s-egg-shell-blue sky and fold clothes and place them in my suitcase. I sip my coffee and listen to Lana sing about blue banisters and being left behind. And I feel so good, so deeply honored to be here, to be who I am, to have what I have and know what I know, that it almost frightens me. It feels so foreign it borders on lunacy.
We have been lied to for so long, you guys. Lied to over and over and over again about who we are and what we’re worth. But I want you to know that we are not garbage. We are not throw-aways. There is something bigger than us and it wants us to get better. I promise. I can feel it. I’m like a re-wired thing. Broken shit is healing and I am not even trying to fix it on purpose. All I have to do is keep the poison out of my system and then everything I never even imagined is just fucking handed over to me like I’m some kind of worthy being. Some kind of creature I never ever want to leave.