Seeds of Sobriety

Since penning this initial diary entry, I’ve been clean for 451 days. I turned from a life of drugs to one of writing, funneling an addiction into more socially acceptable avenues.

The first few months of sobriety is a far cry from the excitement and euphoria of all-night ragers on speed drugs. Looking back, there is a certain beauty in the mundanity, of doing nothing at all, except merely existing, and finding happiness.

Diary Entry

May 2021

The trees in our backyard have finally started to grow back. It’s nice to see some life coming back around here. I’ve been languishing inside for too long.

Even some of the grass seed I planted in the fall is starting to grow. A lot of work goes into a house and this is the first one where I’ve lived. So everything is sort of trial-and-error, like so much of life.

The front yard is much smaller and I didn’t put down any seed. I’m starting to regret that. Our neighbors have some of the greenest grass I’ve ever seen. I’m jealous.

I’m also on Day 10 of the “Practice More, Suck Less” challenge. I’m practicing sobriety. Aren’t we all?

It’s going great. I ran out of deodorant this morning. At least I can’t blame it on the drugs anymore. I spent $12 on more. That’s outrageous. Don’t we want to encourage more people to wear this stuff?

3:17am

Diary Entry

October 2020

I can’t sleep. I go outside. I see Mars. Who do I want to tell? Only one person, but it’s fucking three in the morning. I’m like, I can’t do that. He’s going to wonder what I am doing outside at three in the morning. That would be weird. Then I am like, Oh my God. He is going to guess that I am smoking a cigarette. Because that is what I am always doing. Always. 24 hours a day. My whole family smoked. Died from unrelated causes. So I am like, my God, I don’t want him to know this. Why don’t I want him to know this? 

Man, now I can’t tell him I’ve seen Mars.

Sex in America

Diary Entry

Sex addiction is a thing I guess. Yes, someone out there is telling everyone else that too much sex or sex under the wrong conditions is wrong. Unbelievable. Most people aren’t having enough if you ask me. I googled it. 1.2 times a week. I don’t know how you have .2 sex, maybe that’s a quickie or something, but once a week. 

Sad.

I’m sober by the way. *sips apple juice box*

Kill Me with Your Sexy

Diary Entry 

I know I should be mad at you, but I can’t prove it, so here we are again. Love. I hate you. That fucking face.

He is always in the back of my mind. Or on the forefront, depending on where I put him for the day. I am sure this is weird, an atypical experience, but this is my life, almost two years in the making. I have tried dumping him, I have tried. Whenever I’m done, a little voice in my head: why do you want to destroy a good thing?

Good point, voice in my head. Good point. I don’t, actually. Shall we keep going?

I am stuck with him. It occupies my thoughts from sun up to sun down without boredom in between. Obsessive, maybe. Has anyone else been here before? I don’t know. I have never in my life. Most bizarre phenomenon of my entire life. 

I do the nastiest things in my head with him. I’ll be reading and “doze off.” Then, for some godless reason, I’m interrupted, and I am just like Excuse me, I was about to finish.

I remember the first time I saw him. Cute and kind. That was the word. Of all things. Kind. Him. Biggest asshole I know. Kindest man on Earth. He is the one who says “ass” rhymes with “glass,” no matter what, and did you know? “Fart” rhymes with heart,” every time. Most useless writing advice ever. I want to throw him away sometimes. Worst editor in my life. Doesn’t have the guts to be mean. We are completely different, like night and day, which prevents us from massacring each other. 

Could I write this without him? No. 

It took me like three weeks to decide if he was even cute. I had a debate in my head. What if he’s shorter than me? No. What if he’s taller? That’s okay. Is he cute? I don’t know yet, let me analyze this. Cute at first. It graduated. It went in gradations. The first time I saw him write a non-essential clause, it went to whoa, you’re fucking hot. 

One day he went on and on about the origin and “correct” meaning of some Latin phrase from the Dead Poet’s Society. Etymologize on my face. Kill me with your sexy. 

Am I wearing a bra? Also, no.