k0llerb0n3z

[k0llerb0n3z]

a fate much deserved

my keys are on the hook. my clothes are in the hamper. i am wearing my finest pajamas as i join my dad on the couch. he fills the pipe quickly, using his expert hands to pack in as much as he can. i smoke more than i ever have before. i lay back onto the couch and stare at the ceiling for hours. this is all i wanted. this is my only escape.

            i am seventeen now and i have moved away from my alcoholic. i live with my mother. despite moving, my fate has not changed. my day has just ended at five pm. i smoke every day these days. my head pounds and fills with static. my hands shake and i become angry. quickly, i rush to my hiding spot. i open my bag and take some out, stuffing as much as i can into my borrowed grinder. i turn the top, grinding it into smaller pieces, almost powder. my hands are not as expert as my alcoholic’s but i manage to fill the pipe, spilling only some. i pack it in as much as i can. my alcoholic had given me a lighter. i step into the backyard and light the pipe, covering the hole with my finger and then letting it go. the smoke fills my mouth, my throat, my lungs. finally. this is what i needed. i feel it rushing to my brain, feel myself start to smile, my mood start to shift.

            there is this question they ask you, when you’re getting admitted to a psychiatric hospital. “was it purely for revenge, mostly for revenge, kind of for revenge, or was it purely to end pain, mostly to end pain, kind of to end pain?” it is a fun question to get asked seven times. sometimes, people dislike that i smoke. people who don’t understand what it’s like to be me. they ask me why. the aforementioned question always appears in my head. why do i do anything? to end pain, obviously. i smoke to end pain. to stop the noise in my head. i smoke to make life bearable. i blame the mental illness, personally.

            that’s the thing about being bipolar, the thing a lot of healthy people don’t seem to realize. you will never be okay again. it does not go away. it is manageable, it is treatable, it is not curable. you’re always recovering, never recovered. mental illness sits in the back of your mind, just waiting for the perfect time to escape. it is always there. i can often feel it creeping up on me. i smoke to end pain, mostly. i relapse to make sure i don’t relapse. life is a cycle. i am destined to be what i am. soon, i will die like my alcoholic.

[k0llerb0n3z]

a letter to my alcoholic

sometimes, i don’t know what to say anymore. my brain feels empty, heavy, leaden. it is often with you. we sit in silence, smoking or watching tv or driving around, and i have no idea what to say. we’re both talkative people, i like to think. there is never a dull moment with you. but sometimes, i don’t know what to say to you. like when you buy a pint of whiskey at two pm on a tuesday. what do i say?

            “hey, stop.”

            as if thatll do anything at all. as if begging you would work. if begging would make you stop drinking, i would be on my knees already, hands clasped together, eyes toward the heavens as i begged and begged. i would convert to christianity, to judaism, to anything i could just for you to change. i’d do anything except tell you how i feel. it’s not that you’re fragile, don’t get me wrong. you aren’t fragile. sometimes you just… you look at me with these eyes, these eyes that beg me not to talk about it anymore. it’s like this one scene in this tv show i watch. the main character is standing there and begging his friend slash crush slash ghostwriter to tell him that he’s a good person. he begs her and begs her, and she stays quiet. sometimes you say something but it sounds to me more like, “please don’t give up on me. please don’t leave. give me one more chance.”

            well, i didn’t listen. and i’m sorry. i left you alone. you have to understand that i can’t always be around to save you. you have to understand that i can’t save you. and in those moments, when your eyes are begging me to understand and my brain is empty and i don’t know what to say anymore, i think about the times when my partner has asked if you were drunk before they agreed to come over. i think about when your sister would text me and ask how you’re doing today and if she needs to come pick me up. i remember escaping to my friend’s house for a week so i could pretend you were okay. i think about you, and what you did to me when you chose alcohol. maybe it’s less that you chose it and more that it chose you. it still feels like a choice you made, to have the next sip, to pour the next drink.

            sometimes i wonder if i was better, would you stop? all those years i spent hating you, and the years you spent yelling at me. all the years we spent bumping heads because we couldn’t understand each other. then, when we finally got along, all that time we spent smoking. all those times i drove you to the store when you were already drunk and let you buy more alcohol. sometimes i just wonder, if i had cleaned my room and made dinner and showed you how life could be, maybe you would’ve tried harder for me. maybe if i had been enough, you could’ve been enough too. but it isn’t your fault. you have a disease. you are dead. it’s okay, really. i just miss you every day. i think about what we could’ve been. i remember when you taught me to ride a bike. i also remember when you taught me to make a gravity bong. i remember all the times you tried your best, all the times you showed up for me. and i’ll remember those when you’re gone. i forgive you for everything else. it’s okay, dad. you did your best. maybe i was the one who should’ve tried harder. maybe it was me. but then again, maybe it was you. i’ll come visit you tomorrow. i wear your sweater all the time. it doesn’t smell like you anymore. i don’t smell like you anymore.

[k0llerb0n3z]

the metaphorical death of my father

i’m sitting in an al-anon meeting, listening to adults talk about their drunk husbands and wives. i am the youngest person here, by far. i feel almost as if i don’t belong, like i havent experienced enough to be in this room. as though my life wasn’t as bad as everyone else’s, i haven’t lived enough to deserve this help.

            the common term in al-anon to describe whoever sent you there is “my alcoholic.” this is weird and inaccurate to me, almost offensive. he’s more than just my alcoholic. i love him. he took care of me, raised me, fed and clothed me. he did his best. he is an alcoholic, though.

            that’s the thing about alcoholics, really. there’s different levels of alcoholism. my alcoholic is what they call “functioning.” this is a… funny thing to call it. it’s not funny, but it is. how dare you suggest my alcoholic’s drinking isn’t as serious as someone else’s? sure, he showers and goes to work, but that’s all he does. he barely eats. he doesn’t do anything that makes him happy. he does everything as fast as possible so he can go home and drink. he is dead. my father is dead. but sure, he’s “functioning.”

            functioning is a harmful word in general. to treat something as less serious than something else just because you’re capable of performing basic societal tasks. “high functioning autism” as though all kinds of autism aren’t vastly different and difficult to manage. “functioning alcoholic” as though my father isn’t slowly killing himself by drinking just because he can still go to work. “but you’re still functioning, so it can’t be that bad.” cars function. robots function. i don’t want to just go through the motions. i want to live. experience life. be human. my alcoholic isn’t living. my father is dead.