This is the first time I’ve driven home drunk.
Drunk. Drunk.
As in four gin and tonics drunk, one consecutively stronger than the next.

I should correct myself.

This is the first time I’ve driven Home, home,
As in four gin and tonics drunk,
one consecutively stronger than the next,
To the point where I pulled over and passed out on the road for God or Buddha knows how long.

Drunk, drunk.

Probably because all I ate before was a a banana strawberry smoothie.
After having run 6-miles this morning.
And 8 miles before that.
And 9 miles before that.
I’m not normally such a light weight.
But tonight I guess I am,
having lost 5lbs in the last week alone.

Drunk drunk.
Like I scared my parents drunk.
Like I scared my parents,
Who’ve probably never drank for pleasure in their lives,
Like I scared my parents,
When I tried to hang my–
My parents—keys,
On the banister in the staircase at Home,
Home, home.

And missed.

And my mom knew what was up.
She raised me since I was cut out of her stomach at 4 lbs,
And she knew what was up.

My Dad knew what was up.
When he came out and found me sitting in the driveway in his car,
Because I was so….
Drunk. Drunk.
Because I drunkenly–
Drove home on my own,
Drunk drunk.

In my defense,
I had made it to our driveway just fine.
It was my own bed room that was the problem.
When I couldn’t stand still,
And missed the stairway banister when I tried to hook my keys in it,
That was when they knew.

And I cried tears,
Knowing not because this is the first time I’ve been Drunk drunk,
But that this was the first time I’d been caught in the 25-yrs of my life,
Even though I’ve been Drunk. Drunk,
Farther than Drunk drunk,
Many times in my college and grad school life.
I’ve gone home with strange men,
Old men,
Gay men,
Straight men,
Mostly old, straight men.

But this is the first time I’ve looked my Dad in the eye,
Listened to my Mom’s voice crack.

They think this is the first time I’ve been Drunk.
They think I’ve been drugged.
They talk to me about being raped,
Even though I know what that’s about.
They cry to me their tears,
And wipe up my own,
And I have to wonder,
Did I want to get “caught”?

They’ve checked up on me twice so far.
Like my heart is going to stop or something, even though it won’t.

I’ve overdosed on nothing illegal tonight.
But I’ve never seen my own daughter seizing in the ED due to an intentional overdose.
Which they have,
So I guess I can’t say much as someone who is not a Mom or a Dad.

I know no one is sleeping tonight.
And I am ashamed.
That I could not hold my alcohol,
That up until 25 years old,
I suddenly could not handle my shit.

I Get It

I realized what the difference is between our relationship.
I’m just like everyone else now.
The way you talk to me,
the way you think about me,
the way you treat me.

I’m just like everyone else.
Except I’m right there on the fence,
on the other side of your fence.

Sometimes when you lift it,
I might be able to get a leg through,
Or if I squeeze myself small enough,
I might be able to slip my fingers and hands through the wire to reach you.

And when you’re friendly,
you might even touch your finger to mine,
hold my hand in yours.

But I feel like that hasn’t happened in over a year.
Not since you woke me up in the middle of the night and made me come to your room,
and sat me there in your silent tears,
and let the anger boil,
let the hate seep,
let the sorrow imprint itself,
so that you could mark me as a traitor,
never to be let in again.

There is a fake-ness to your tone when you speak to me now.
Every now and then,
it still sounds like you though.
And for that I keep holding on.

But I’m just like everyone else now.
I can be ignored.
I’m worthless.
I can be thrown away.

I’m worse than the Devil.

I wonder,
when you look at me,
whether you still think of me as a sister.


“…and the thing with brothers is, you’re supposed to take turns being the keeper. Sometimes you get to sit down and be the brother who is kept.”

Ender’s Shadow

I wonder if this is true for sisters.
And I wonder if this is my punishment, for all the years that I was kept when I got to be the spoiled, illogical, rampaging sister that threw tantrums to get what I wanted.
I wonder if this is some twisted god saying, “Ha ha” ala Nelson Muntz.
I wonder,
I wonder.

If it’s true,
If…it’s true,
I don’t know what to say.
I guess I deserve it?

But there is a fire in me that says I don’t.
And there are friends who tell me I shouldn’t.
My therapist used to say I can’t still blame myself for things I did when I was 4, or 7, or 11, or 15, or 18.
But she does.

And there’s something dark in me that eats up the weak person that I am.
That I’d rather just take some Benadryl and hope I never wake up.
There’s a voice in me that asks,
“Why, why in the past five years haven’t you slept?”

This time it’s an extra $10/month that I cost us.
“Us”, as in the family she hates and never talks to anymore.
“Us”, the ones who never listen.
“Us”, the ones she doesn’t care about anymore.

Because of me.
Because of me things happen.

This time it’s $10/month.
I am not worth $10/month.
My mistake is $10/month.
Before, it was a extra text message.
One too many, to remind her she had mail at home to pick up.
One extra text message, because I did not know that one had already been sent before.

That’s what it’s come to.
This landmine.
I can’t tread it anymore.
I can’t float.
I feel like if I just relax,
that drowning might be the best thing that ever happened.

Then I won’t be the reason.

Then maybe she’ll be happy.


Usually it’s just in the middle of the night,
when I lay down to sleep and I can’t,
that it hits me.

And sometimes in the middle of the day,
or right when I wake up.

But usually in the middle of the night,
right before I close my eyes to sleep,
and I can’t.

It used to be the honest to God fear of losing someone I love and cannot live without.
But in the past few months it’s been more the fear of that fear,
if that makes any sense.

Or worse,
it’s over hypothetical situations of how the people I love would go,
how I might act if it really happened,
what I would say to others,
how I would hunch over and cling to their tombstones,
how I might cry in their last breaths, pleading them not to go–

And then I would run these scenarios over and over in my head,
with the fear that they could be real closing in,
And then I can’t breathe.

I’m angry.
Over these hypothetical scenarios filled with real people.

And then I cry.
And I don’t sleep.

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