Drunk Words

For the record I do not regret the things I’ve said when I was drunk. Except maybe when I told Mark to leave me on the bathroom floor because I didn’t want anyone seeing the fucked up puddle I had become. Poor guy had to carry me down the stairs, I dressed myself though, so that’s something.

I have also never been on to write drunk and edit sober. Feels too much like lying.

 

Drunk words are sober thoughts. Everyone knows this.

I am held up and together by so many inebriated “I love you’s” sworn into my collarbones by drunk boys hanging on to me for dear life. Just to let go the next morning when the hangover and reality kicked in.

I’ve done it too. Never said I love you when I didn’t mean it, not lately anyways. Not since I figured out what it meant I mean.
Said shit drunk I wasn’t brave enough to say sober. It happens.

Lately, when I drink, I cry.

I’m beyond frustrated and I can’t keep it contained. Whiskey is the key to the lock on my glass case of emotion.

I mean, I’m actually made of glass. If my mouth doesn’t say it, my eyes will. But my mouth always says it. If not in real life, then here in these pages I write.

Most of the time I am bulletproof, and sometimes there’s a crack.

I am transparent. I live without a filter and I speak without lies.

I sit in my emotions and my truth and sift through them endlessly.

Most people can’t, don’t or won’t, and sometimes I envy them.

They smoke/drink/fuck/run/hide…anything to quiet the noise.

And they lie.

To me.

And themselves.

Sometimes convincingly.

You see dear readers, this is not a new story.

It’s a culmination of all those who came before.

I’ve had a million moments of self-doubt.

Especially when it comes to men. Wherein I have thought, with bone shaking clarity “Maybe I made it all up. Maybe it wasn’t what I thought it was.”

I repeat this till it is true.

It’s easier that way, to blame my imagination. I have a habit of seeing only the good in people I care about, and I tend to take the blame when they leave. It’s just easier.

Time passes, I convince myself of this new ‘truth’ and then…oh and then, I will be looking through this inbox or that one and the earth shakes and the truth comes out.

The actual truth. Spelled out in black and white, in old messages. Their words, not what I imagined, what I remembered and tried to forget.

And then I have to deal with the loss and confusion all over again.

So maybe it isn’t easier.

But I don’t know how to be angry.

Knowing I was right and having them still gone brings no satisfaction at all.

And sometimes they come back.

Always, they always come back. Seriously it’s fucking weird.

My girls back home will kill me if they read this, but here it is.

Lumberjack found me on the Siren’s Snapchat.

Ya, that Lumberjack.

The one who hid his actual girlfriend the whole time.

And I didn’t block him. I let him say what he needed to say, and I forgave him. Just let it go. He is what he is, being angry won’t change what happened.

Cut to a few weeks later, Monday I think it was. He pops up again with a snap of a rather delicious looking seafood stew of some sort. I said “noms, how are you?”

I have a rather fond memory of him taking me out for a glorious seafood dinner to satisfy a whim I had, and as I was struggling with a crab claw he reached over, cracked it for me and handed it back, smiled and called me a dork. He remembered too, which is why he sent me a pic of my favorite foods. Fucker.

Now, please understand I am drowning. Monday was extra bad, I saw a lifeline and I reached for it.

I said “I need some advice”.

He complied.

Took me a minute to spit out what I wanted to ask. Sometimes I can’t find my words.

I asked if I had been more assertive, less passive would he have still gone back to her.

He said “I thought you were in love.”

(eyeroll*)

I said “I am, and I am scared. I just don’t want to repeat my mistakes.”

There was a long pause and then he said “I can’t believe you are blaming yourself Sarah, I’m a terrible person.”

Followed by, “if this guy is reminding you of me, you might want to run sweetheart.”

It’s not that. Different man, similar situation. Bitch of an ex.

I told him he had potential to be good, just had to fix his broken ego.

I ended it there. No point in continuing.

I didn’t really get an answer, but it was nice to get some closure.

The answer didn’t matter anyways. Not like I could be a bitch if I tried.

I do not demand anything of anyone, I take what I am given and work with it as best I can.

*Typical of him to think I was wanting him back though, I got a good chuckle out of that.
Nope, I can forgive but I won’t forget.  “I may think of you softly from time to time. But I will cut off my hand before I’ll ever reach for you again.” Arthur Miller

Speaking of…

Gelfling found me before I left. Triggered by some pic on Instagram I’m sure. Just wanted to remind me he existed. We chatted briefly. He recalled everything I did and said one night we were together, 4 years after the fact. Even what I was wearing and how my legs sit when I drive.

Fuck you.

I am so tired of being held so fucking sacred, after the fact.

How is a memory of me worth keeping when I wasn’t?

I might be strong and brave and weird and loving and forgiving…

But underneath all of this…

I am just a girl, who wants to believe the sweet things.

Like getting a place together, picking me up from the ferry, taking me home for Sunday supper.
That I am magic and you miss me. I know all these things were said at night, a few beers in, to my face, in my inboxes.
And I can’t help but remember that Friday night when you told me you were shy sober.

This is the one time I want to be remembered. I am right fucking here.