Step One: Powerlessness (Twelve Steps)

Upon much contemplation over what powerlessness means to me I have reached the fullness of my conviction. I struggled with powerlessness the first time I got sober because it was easy for me to stop drinking. If I was powerless over alcoholism why was I able to quit with such ease? It wasn’t until my resentments came to a boil that I gave way to a nearly two-year run of binge drinking and blackouts.

Letter to Rehab Donors

The following is a letter I wrote for a newsletter at the sober living house where I am residing…

BLACKOUT (Journal Entry)

I came to
Fuck am I?

Shit, the psych ward again
Fuck I do this time?
Here comes the nurse
Lemme act like I’m sleeping

“It’s time to get going”
Fuck am I wearing
Shit, no shoes
And it’s raining
Here comes the walk of shame 

My Only Wish (Journal Entry)

I wish I were a great writer. The type that never grows old. Endlessly quoted by inspiration junkies. Taught in schools across the globe. 

I want to be revered for my works, my contribution to mankind. Not for what I have or what I flaunt or where I live or how I dine.

I want to write words that paint a picture so vivid and divine you could sail the sea of wisdom, a thousand words to clear your mind. 

I want to dwell among the greatest, hold rank at the highest spot. And when I’m gone I’ll live forever through the words I have begot. 

Listen to Everyone ( Journal Entry)

Listen to everyone. We all have a story. We all hold a piece to the puzzle that unlocks the vault of glory. We all have a dream, a wisdom to behold. We all have a plan, we all want to be heard. 

Everyone stumbles, everyone lies. Everyone hurts, everyone cries. Everyone judges what they do not know. Everyone wants what they fail to sow. 

But tucked up in a mountain hidden far away, out of sight, out of mind, in a jar of clay. There’s a map to a treasure hidden in our souls. Those who seek alas find the love they can’t show. 

The Winepress of Hate (Journal Entry)

The delusions of mankind are like shards beneath my feet, bruises on my skin, a fight that I can’t win. I’m drowning in a winepress of narcissistic hate. Peddled out to foolish trolls drunk on hurt and fame. 

They stomp it out, then bottle it up, and pass it off as love. But the mess that’s left behind is all but brushed under the rug. 

The fruit of the vine that keeps on giving, never stops, it carries on. When everything is taken, new life begins to grow. Gathered into compost, scattered in the fields, feeding all the new vines for generations yield. 

So you can throw me in the winepress of narcissistic hate. You can take what’s worth the giving and leave the rest to fate. But beware of the delusion that you’re the one in charge as you sip upon my vengeance and blackout in the yard. 

A Letter to Myself (Journal Entry)

Dear Sweet Maria,

If every famous love quote were compiled into a song, my love for you would remain unsaid. Your passion sets me off into a frenzy of incoherent jitterbugs. Your strength in the forefront of repetitive injury can only be described as the spirit of grace. 

When you fall, you get back up with thrice the wisdom you had before. And even when you fall again, I have no doubt you will endure. 

I am twitterpated by your beauty, not just the cover, but the book that lurks beneath. If you ever gave up on dreaming the Earth would tremble in despair.

Eternal Love,

Maria

Mother Dearest (Journal Entry)

I hate my reflection. A daily reminder of the fool I came to be. Every imperfection, every self-inflicted scar. Every time I look into those sullen eyes it’s like the record hits play on every memory I wish I could forget.

When I was younger I had so many dreams, so much hope for a beautiful life. The one thing I lacked is what drove me into hell. 

Id, Ego & Superego (Journal Entry)

Here I go again. My id got the best of me. I run from my life til I can’t get away then it’s back to the same old drunken charade. I don’t know how I got here. Or at least that’s what I like to say. I know exactly how I got here. My I can’t admit my blame. 

The Coveted Prize (Journal Entry)

Tainted memories, faint and bitter sweet. Tossed to the wolves, lost with the sheep. Picking up the pieces but I got nothing left to own. Taped out long before I knew the life that leads to love.

If living were an art form, and love were the coveted prize; my canvas is a heaping pile of confettied hearts and lies.