Clover hearted

When will you return home?

TW: vivid descriptions of substance addiction and overdose, psychiatric hospitalization
A heavy and unhappy chapter writing about my relapse and overdose. In this chapter I reflected a lot on these events and what they mean about me as a person.

What do you really want?
Searching for it in people you hold so close they feel your heartbeat, searching for it in people whose faces you've never seen.
Searching for it in a nightstand full of empty bottles or a night in the bitter cold, searching for it in 11 month chips, 5th steps, and AA meetings.
Searching for it in writing poetry that reads like a purple bruise, searching for it in poetry that reads like sunlight on your skin.
Searching for it in a list of prescribed prayers belted with half open eyes, searching for it in the choice of leaving the list behind to venture into the rain.
Searching for it in definitions of words as answers to questions, the content of your character, a word for what is wrong in your psyche, searching for it in answering questions with "I don't know."
Searching for it in behaving as if I were someone more yellow or blue or purple, searching for it in existing authentically, as bitter and rotting, as lovely and sunny.

Lost in translation
Bubbly, asking questions, talking energetically, laughing loudly, a childish demeanor.
Authentic, able to tell you ugly stories and wear strange quirks.
Attentive, asking you questions I believe you'd like to answer, nodding my head, repeating what you said back to you.
Passionate, rambling about why this poetry book is profound, excitement that cannot be contained.
Appreciative, thanking you for trying, thank you for being here, thank you for being what you are.
It's always stripped away, bleached until it's lost all color, never does it remain.
Selfish, a mind solely focused on what I would like today, I love you, until, until, until.
Shifting, I think you and I arrange together in a way I have never known, a connection a person only receives as a divine message, a month later the diary entries I wrote about you are hollow as you are another person on the list of people I ran out.
Impulsive, senseless actions that disregard months or years of something beautiful, careless enough to throw it all away.
Dishonest, rewriting the truth until I no longer know what it is, lying to you, lying about lying.
I believe myself to be lovable as a temporary person who will fade away because I found my way out again.

Mouthwash
January 26th, the first day I can honestly say I'm sober.
I'm walking through the hallways with a nurse from the hospital, trying to nod along and make conversation.
He opens a clear bottle of hand sanitizer and pours it into his hands, the part of me that wants to be intoxicated more than I want to be anything revisits.
I stare trying to quietly find the alcohol percentage, I could steal this if I wanted to. Would it be enough to get me drunk? Maybe.
I defeatedly admitted to the nurse that I would like her to hide this from me, I'm an alcoholic, I'll drink it.
Admitting that is a crushing blow, admitting to the empty bottles of mouthwash and the tricks I use to stomach it.
I don't like to sit with the knowledge that I'll do anything for the feeling.

4th day at the psych ward
Having terrifying hallucinations, staring at the wall, walking with nowhere to go.
The nurse brings me a pill, I apologize again and again.
I tell her about the voices, she brings me an ice pack, I take the pill.
I call my parents and eat cereal in the hallway, I talk with someone I've never met.
I go to bed early, I wake up at four in the morning.
I talk about mania and dissociation with a man I met when I arrived here.

Son
I'm trying to find someone to give me something, I am looking for a picture of my credit card, I need something, anything, and I won't wait.
I tell her the truth, I'm leaving to buy drugs, I know I'm being senseless, I just need something.
She tells me I'm making a choice, by walking out of that front door I'm communicating something bigger.
It's raining. I dump out my bag, I shuffle through its contents, keeping the poetry books and lighters, leaving the AA book and list of prayers.
She's crying, I'm staring at the ceiling with hot tears running down my cheeks.
I love you, I'm sorry. I love you, I'm sorry. I love you, I'm sorry.
I'll never forget the sound of her voice when I walked out.
I walk into the store and mindlessly steal boxes of cough medicine and bottles of mouthwash.
It's senseless, isn't it?
I walk through town pouring bottles down my throat despite the cold sunlight beaming down upon me.
I sit at a picnic table with boxes and bottles spread everywhere.
I took a lot, I don't know how much. I don't know why you put up with me.
I lie in bed and ask her one hundred times why she stays.
I tell a family friend not to invite me over for crafts with her grandson, she says she won't.
I arrive at the hospital stumbling with eyes half open.