She just read it. It reminded me of when my middle school students
would get called on for popcorn but they totally did not want to be
reading. Just fast and straight, get it over with. Anyway, she read it.
I remember the preface of the poem. Sobriety. Pain. Healing. All the
buzzwords that I held in my repertoire as of the past year and a half
or so, easily called upon for therapy sessions. Then, she just read it.
I can’t recall any lines that stood out to me because I didn’t really
hear the words. I could just feel the words. I could feel the pain from
myself and from her and from anyone else in that living room circle
of humans that was dripping out. It collected into a puddle and my
soul toweled it up. And I could feel it all. And I cried. I sobbed. Heads
stayed still while eyes shifted to peek if my human sadness was real—if
this was really happening, a girl sobbing at a cozy community poetry
reading? It was happening. A friend scooted over across the circle to be
near me, mouthing, “Are you still sober?” Yesyesyes, a million yes’s—I
nodded with tears flowing. Hands magnetized toward mine and tears
magnetized toward those hands as a result. My pain—the pain of self destruction—came back full force. I could see myself. All those nights,
a starry-eyed and wide-mouthed drunk girl stomping in heels and
tight skirts down concrete runways between bars. Laughing, always
laughing—but never feeling—just numb to the point of laughing. I
could see the men touching me, grabbing toward me as I slid off the
bar stool, my mouth too drunk to forcefully tell them to back the fuck
off. Grazing my wilted body with their thirsty hands, welcomed by my
learned insecurity and need for validation from men. I could see night
after night after night. Making sure I didn’t drive so I could be drunk
upon arrival and continue drinking throughout the night. How would
I have fun otherwise? Depending on who I was trying to impress that
night, my drinks of choice were red wine, PBR, or shots, to put off
the vibe that I was fancy, low-maintenance, or could totes handle my
liquor (respectfully). Then, I saw the tears. Increasing directly with the length of these choices. My body and soul getting more and more
desperate for me to stop this, all of this—what else could they do to
try to reach me? Tears from rejection, tears from unwanted accounts of
sexual violation, tears from losing control of my body and hurting it,
tears from slowly realizing this self-destructive lifestyle was hurting me
way more than I could ever pretend it was helping me. Finally, I saw
myself in that other college town, taking that last PBR out of the box
in some corner of some house at some Halloween party, fake mustache
stuck to my face. The sweet crack of it resulting in my drooling, alarmingly resembling Pavlov’s dogs and their classical conditioning. That last sip. That last sip when I had had enough. The sip to make me realize I hate this. The same hate that resurfaced this night and demanded to be acknowledged in the presence of others who would understand. I just felt it. And she just read it.