PSA: I Didn’t Get Sober For This Shit

via PSA: I Didn’t Get Sober For This Shit

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The Impact of 24 Hours and a Winter Sunrise

“At some point, you gotta let go, and sit still, and allow contentment to come to you.”
― Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love

 

There’s beauty in waking up to face the mundane day ahead. There’s zen in the taking of a shower and doing my hair for work. A pleasure in making a sandwich for lunch, and grabbing fruits and veggies too. There’s serenity in listening to the dogs yap as I make my way out the door and drive down snow covered roads. There’s beauty in watching the sun come up, even if I’m on my way to work.

There’s no shame when I wake up these days. There’s no guilt from what I’ve done the night before. There’s just this sense of calmness that comes over me and let’s me know that I’m blessed to be alive. I’ve got 24 hours to make an impact. 24 hours to change a life, even the only life I change is my own. I’ve got 24 hours of reprieve from a disease that would like to kill me.

You know what I love? Not having one damn bit of drama in my life, and knowing that I am loved.

Chaotic Thoughts and the Newly Sober Woman

I’m sitting at the laundromat and all of the machines are whirring, grinding and spinning while I sit in a molded plastic chair smiling like a goof. My brain is happy with all the chaos and noise. No one is speaking to me or even looking my way as I write. I can’t hear my heart beat in my ears, or the white noise static that is a constant in my brain.

I finally wipe the grin off my face and look up to see two little girls helping their dad use the large capacity spin machine. Dad must own a laundry business, because he’s washing tons of clothing that most assuredly don’t belong to him. Women’s clothes, large colorful blankets and more than one load of whites made sparkling by bleach. The kids voices and laughter mix with the other chaotic sounds and my brain becomes even more at peace.

I spy from the corner of my eye a man taking photos of the high capacity washers he’s using. I find it odd, but then rationalize what the hell difference should it make to me why he’s doing it? My hope is that he’s sending the photo to his girlfriend to prove to her what a good guy he is. He’s doing the laundry while she’s at work or something. Who knows, right?

The girls are using the large capacity spin machine thingy again and it’s super loud. It makes me smile my goofy grin again and I wonder if anyone is watching me. Probably not. We’re all here doing the same thing, but that’s the only parallel to our lives.

I’m just going to sit here and enjoy my quiet mind and heart for the time being. While the machines whir, grind and spin…

Friday Fictioneers-Frank Lloyd Wright and the Rebel

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Copyright-Roger Bultot

Genre: General fiction mixed with a memory

The walls are curved and so stark you’d think they were white washed. I’m touring with teenagers that are acting like surly children. Finally, I’ve had enough and I plod back to the main floor past works of art the children do not care to see.

The artwork begs for my attention, yet I’m too exhausted to look. I just want two minutes to myself.  I lift my eyes upward and become entranced.

The lobby docent utters, “no photos are to be taken here”.  Standing in the center of the room, I smile and click the camera on my phone.

Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. I know I haven’t written anything in awhile, but I’m working everyday to change that. I’m always glad to hear your feedback and have your support.

Somewhere Only We Know

I walked across an empty land

I knew the pathway like the back of my hand I felt the earth beneath my feet

Sat by the river, and it made me complete

Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?

I’m getting tired, and I need someone to rely on

I came across a fallen tree

I felt the branches of it looking at me

Is this the place we used to love?

Is this the place that I’ve been dreaming of?

Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?

I’m getting old, and I need something to rely on

And if you have a minute, why don’t we go Talk about it somewhere only we know? This could be the end of everything

So why don’t we go

Somewhere only we know? Somewhere only we know.

Oh, simple thing, where have you gone?

I’m getting old, and I need someone to rely on So tell me when you’re gonna let me in

I’m getting tired, and I need somewhere to begin

And if you have a minute, why don’t we go Talk about it somewhere only we know? This could be the end of everything

So why don’t we go?

Somewhere only we know

Somewhere only we know

Watch Your Fucking Language and 5 Minutes to Change the Next 50 Years of Your Life

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When we were little girls we were told to be ladylike. Don’t talk too loud. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Let the boy come to you. When we were grown, we were told to find a man to take care of you. Be a delicate flower. Be thin. Be anything but yourself. Don’t eat on a date. Don’t drink too much. Blend in. Be the wallflower. Be demure. Be, be, be, but don’t be you.

I was never the quiet girl. I was never the one to follow the crowd. I was the unicorn. The girl with the big boobs that weighed 150 lbs. and was thought of as fat. The one that decided rebellion was a good thing. I laughed too loud. I swore a lot. I drank, smoked cigarettes and weed, but I was the good girl too. And did I LOVE boys! I wore clothes to reflect my mood for the day. I didn’t belong to any group or clique. Just flitted from clique to clique like a butterfly lighting on the blooms in a garden. I belonged everywhere and nowhere, and that was okay.

As I get older, the butterfly that flitted from group to group is tired and looking for a home. I still belong everywhere and nowhere. I think part of it is because I was adopted and might still be feeling lost from that. It’s not healthy to be feeling abandoned at this age. I know that this thought is of my own making, and I have to be the one that steps away from that sorry and into the light.

So today I say fuck the fuckers, and use my loud voice. I’m the girl with the big boobs. I’m the girl that is not the typical beauty. I’m not a delicate flower, nor do I want to be. I want to be the girl that rages against the dying of the light. It’s time for me to be, be, be and to the real me. I am a goddess rising, a butterfly and a unicorn. I’m not just a manic pixie dream girl, hell bent on being the sidekick.

I’m the dreamer and the dream, in charge of my own destiny. So what if I say fuck, a lot!?

Kiss Your Own Fingertips

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I’ve forgotten what it’s like to love myself.

To look at myself in the mirror and see beauty instead of flaws.

I’ve forgotten how to love myself.

To touch my flabby and cellulite covered skin and not hate it.

To rub my own feet with thick lotion and not wish that the heels were softer.

To hold my hips and wish I could remove all of the fat inside of them.

To trace my wrinkled hands across my ample breasts and hope that someday a man will behold their beauty again.

To gaze at my face in the mirror and not see wrinkles, but amaze at the brightness of my blue eyes and the perfect symmetry of my lips.

I’ve forgotten how to love myself.

To find that little girl that resides inside and tell her that she’s going to be okay.

That she is loved.

That she is free.

That she is important.

I’ve forgotten how to love myself, but I do hope in time I’ll be able to again.

Friday Fictioneers-Crickets and the Chill of Fall

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It’s where I thought we’d sit at night, to hear the crickets till they were silenced by the chill of fall. We’d sit together fireside, while your fingertip traced lazy circles in my palm.

I’m not an outdoorsy girl, but the fire sounded nice, while seated on a bench fashioned from a felled oak in the backyard. All that’s left of us now are the stump and a few fleeting memories of the plans we had.

With my coat buttoned against the cold, I head out to meet the handyman that will finish the work that your leaving left behind.

Genre: Romance, I think

Thank you Rochelle Wisoff-Fields for hosting Friday Fictioneers. The stories don’t come too often for me, but when they do they come quickly and I just have to grab them! Please feel free to critique my work as I’m always open to suggestions for writing better stories.