Clover hearted

February 3rd

TW: substances/addiction, death
A chapter written on my first day sober, trying to return to happiness.

Fearful
I'm scared and I think the fear is based on something very real.
I can lie to myself in any way I want, I find that quite easy, but when I sit in the quiet I know that if I don't get sober I'm going to die.
I look at the relapse and I know if I keep playing this game there's not much left for me.
If I reflect on any of the disgusting and aching details I know this is going to get me if I let it.
I cannot regulate my use of any substance that changes the way I feel, if I begin I will use it all as quickly as I can.
How do I tie my shoes? What am I supposed to talk about? What stories do I tell myself? How can I avoid choking on my vomit?

Small strange loves
I eat the middle of a brownie and drink a latte that might not have any coffee in it.
I gave you my money so I don't buy drugs. I told you to keep me in sight for a while.
I wear my locket that reads "February and October" on one side and "heart shaped box" on another.
I hold my 24 hour chip in my hand for hours at a time.
You were kind when I admitted to behaving senselessly, you are just here to help.
I asked you about being a published author and you told me you hate writing.
I realize how many people listened and how many people hold me through this. People care, people will listen, people understand, people want to see me be happy.
I have a crush on someone in an elated and happy way. I'm glad to see him and listen intently.
I laughed and smiled and I meant it. I flap my hands with excitement.
I move twenty stuffed animals into my bed. I feel safe here.
I feel like myself. I feel sober. I feel like I have returned after being absent.

Rain
You are a human being who exists in a beautiful and deeply impactful way.
I think you've touched more lives than you could ever know, teaching people that who they are is not only acceptable but lovable.
I love the way you wear excitement, I love the way you enjoy things without worrying if it is excessive, I love the way you tell your stories.
I think I read the poetry book you wrote four times, highlighting half of the stanzas in blue or gray.
I love the way you paint your face, the colored eye contacts, the way you dress yourself as a form of expression.
Things you've left behind remind me of bits of myself. This reminds me of sitting on a bench in the rain while in rehab. This reminds me of elated summers. This reminds me of wishing for something different in some form of winter.
It's all a little scrapbook of days past, although none of the pages have pictures of me.
I save little things about you, the names written at the bottom of a letter, the paintings people have made you, kind things you have said to me.
You capture all the things a person can be, the aching and molded, the childish and free, the happy and hurting.
I am amazed at all the faces you can wear, of all the people that you can be, I hope to hold all that coexists like you do.