“Hate” is a filthy word. A poison lingering under the skin of all beings.
Scrolling through the endless feed exposes friends and family on vacation, at graduations, weddings, milestones. And I hated them for it. I’d drink myself to bed ruminating over my envy. I wanted what they had. I craved going on vacation with my closest friends. I grew jealous over my schoolmates and sibling’s success. I lacked, they had. And I hated them for it.
I didn’t like you, because I didn’t like me.
It hurt me all the time.
Walking into recovery meetings early in my journey. Lines of smiling people drilled into my soul—they had to be wearing masks; it couldn’t be real. But I was so lonely and desperate for a connection that I caved. But I didn’t speak. I drank my fears away, and without my medicine, it returned tenfold. Black hurt filled my veins.
How many slip ups and relapses could I take. Each time always gets worse and worse, taking a sledgehammer to rock bottom. Clearly, I was hopeless.
That night a man spoke, likely twice my age, and among the first words out of his mouth was “hate”. I don’t know why, but I lifted my head from my lap at that. The next sentence stayed with me forever.
I hated my brother because he was his true self, and I could never find me.
I had feared discovering who I was in sobriety, because I was afraid I wouldn’t like myself. So others would obviously dismiss me as well. I tend to blame myself for things: failure and isolation and self-hatred. I was a bad person and must be punished.
This share punched me in the face. Like him, I had nothing when I drank. I was so afraid of happiness. I didn’t know what it was. But so did he, tonight he shared his smile with me.
We share because we can relate, and proof stands that we have the ability to heal, no matter where we come from. Words are power, and like the Greek storytellers and war poets of old, the rooms of recovery can change the world. Even if it helps just a single person, that is proof enough that freedom is possible.
Things I enjoyed:
I took the past few days to read Haruki Murakami’s debut novel, Hear the Wind Sing. A short read, the books sheds light on the beauty of simple language. It is by no means a complex book. It is short, and the prose is easily digestible. College anxiety in the urban jungles of inner Tokyo. Interesting read given it is void of the magical realist substance Murakami is known for, but his developing voice remains strong while simple.
The fifth installment of the Red Rising saga, Iron Gold captured my heart, and crushed it in its fingers and drank the pulp. Pierce Brown… Y U Do Dis?
Shogun rules. Slaps. Kicks ass. Made me cry. Laugh. Hoot and holler, some might say. Easily ranks among the best TV shows of all time for me. It fulfills the craving of everything I desire in media: perfect writing, acting, Englishmen being and looking like plagued rats, katanas, samurai, and Hiroyuki Sanada. Do we deserve to eat this good?