Fornicating On The Altar Of My Own Self-Grandiosity.

“Cause darling I’m a nightmare dressed like a daydream”

Welcome, dear hypothetical reader to the reflections of a childlike adult on the bender for booze and bright lights.

One
Lonely girl
Two
Bottles of wine
Three
Hundred apologies.

I swallow the tablet, the sweetness lingering in my mouth, the knowledge that nothing is helping. The bright happy music is playing in the background as I make quick successive cuts, no deliberation or rationalisation, the quick impulsive action an act of punishment, the punishment for not feeling and being better than this. The blood is warm and fast flowing, quickly running down my leg, tissues and tape quickly bind the wound, as I shove my revealing party dress on, my eyes dancing in the mirror, already knowing full well of my intentions. It’s the slightly glazed-over look that is filled with excitement, my heart racing, bottle of wine in hand, red lipstick on. The blood still drips as I quickly drink the contents of the bottle as I wait for my friends to be ready to go.

We arrive at the overcrowded club, so many bright lights and noise, it’s exciting and for the moment the warm burning reminder of what I had inflicted on myself is forgotten. The alcohol mingling well with my medication, my eyes darting to possible interests, quickly detailing and determining each person in turn. My friend grabs my hand, pulls me to the side, she looks into my eyes, I can feel the lecture coming, it’s always coming. She’s worried, the concern clearly written across her face, she tells me that she is scared for me, that I’ve been different. Pointing to the one freckle on my hand, telling me that she loves me, that I need to be balanced and happy again. She doesn’t know I have cried every night of the week after work, that I can’t stand to look at myself in the mirror, that I’m too tired to get out of bed, that I need booze and caffeine to become functional for the day. I don’t tell her these things, I tell her everything is going to be alright, that I will be better, and that I’m getting help. There are truths to my story, I am getting help, but I never know if it’s enough or if it will be in time. Some damage runs too deep.

I quickly kiss her on the lips and say I’m going to dance and have a goodnight, I can see the mistrust in her eyes, but I quickly turn away before she can question me again. At the bar my eyes dart to the man beside me, he is pleasant to look at, I wink, I don’t need anything more, that is enough. I slip my hand into his and pull him to the dance floor. I know I have control, he watches as I pull him closer, all the while I wonder if he realises that I’m a new kind of crazy, I knew what I was doing, I was seducing him, the thrill spurring me on, making me more determined and adventurous. He seemed to be enraptured, sometimes I think as an afterthought that men are attracted to the manic woman, she can be the seductress, alluring them, the black widow spider of women, one misstep can be disastrous. We are thrilling for that short period of time, consumed by our intentions and our longing.

The tide quickly changes, in the light of the new day my cuts are made clearer, the pain more severe, the regret written deep inside, this isn’t me. The tears and self-loathing resurface in the new light, the subdued waif-like figure once again cloaked in black and standing at the back of the room, gloomy and foreboding wondering what tomorrow might bring.

“Screaming, crying, perfect storms
I could make all the tables turn
Rose garden filled with thorns”