It’s the day after Christmas. I’m drowning my sorrows in a bar.
There’s people everywhere. Colorful lights. I can feel the warmth of the patio heaters kissing my back. A sensation of a warmth I haven’t known in a long time.
So many voices, yet I can’t hear anything. They’re just vibrations projecting from every corner, bouncing off me and disappearing into the abyss.
I sit here and wonder what brings everyone tonight. I feel I’m among my people. Probably those who feel unloved. Unwelcome. A place to run to when they don’t feel chosen.
I asked for a Michelob. To my surprise, they didn’t have it. Quite strange for a queer bar, where I’m sure plenty of other lesbians frequent. The Yuengling Flight—it’s not comparable, even though I don’t even like beer in the first place. The only reason I ordered something light is because I don’t want to drink myself into oblivion.
It’s so fucking strange, being in my 30s. Remembering how my younger self thought she was bisexual. That she wanted to be a mom. That she [dreadfully] almost married a man.
So strange, the waters I’ve waded through to realize that’s never what I wanted, truly.
Still, I didn’t imagine sitting at a red high-top table the day after Christmas. Alone.
I’ve always felt alone. Even in rooms full of people. Just like how I feel in this bar right now.
Most of the time I find myself trying to suffocate myself in my feelings. Like a plastic bag over my head as I scream. Purposeful. Torturing myself for torture’s sake. I don’t want to run from them. Somehow, I know if I try to do that, they’ll catch me. Tackle me, give me a concussion. I don’t want to give them that type power.
If I’m the one to suffocate myself, at least I have control.
But tonight is different. The control I typically have, I’ve lost. I’ve entered the stadium without a helmet, just waiting to be taken to the ground.
Give me amnesia so that tomorrow when I wake, I won’t remember half this.
Too bad this garbage will await me in the morning.