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Los Angeles, California
I am 47 and thriving in Southern California. One day at a time.
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Monday, November 14, 2011

back to black

last night i died.

as i sat between my beloveds, k and m, their conversation mused over the relentless omnipresence of alcohol during the holiday season, their disdain of more than a couple of drinks and the "sky's the  limit"less potential to have fun minus alcohol (!). 'twas as endearing as a nickname you're not quite sure if you like, well intentioned, but slightly grating. as the badminton match accelerated, the bird catching air above my head whirled and whizzed blocking out all but one thought.

[i can never drink again.]

already triggered by my socialite ritual: play current fave album LOUD, slap me silly with ms. cover girl and pour healthy sized goblet o' wine/pop xanax (oh. right.); i was already hangin' from the edge of the cliff by my fingernails (of which my immunosuppressives have made sure i have none).

hear the rumbling in the distance
see the dark clouds form
feel the barometer plummet
and your blood grow warm
your blood vessels constrict
and your heart starts to sprint
the darkness lays heavy
and your soul starts to sink


dripping drops, fall faster and faster, wrenching me off the branch i barely grasp above the building tide. with a merciless toss i am plunged into the swell, arms outstretched, flailing, desperate to latch onto my loves. but i am already downstream...deluged...drowned.

then out of the storm, the briefest, violent strike of light. illumination.

"i need a sponsor"...

i can't walk.

my immunosuppressives have been cranked sky high. 200 mg. twice daily of my gal pal, cyclosporine. i like her, but i don't like this much of her. she acts up as hard core swelling of my ankles, calves and thighs. my heels are so hard they would make a male porn star turn green. i shuffle around the facility, feeling like an insane, middle-aged misfit. broken and beat, redhead to feet. tomorrow i meet with the tx. team as we all wobble the high wire, medicinal balancing act together. where do you hang, ms. c? too much of you makes me sick, but keeps "the kid" around; but too little of you might cause him to reject me and bolt...the unknown black hole of immunosuppression has nothing on the black hole residing in my heart...


the psychiatrist is in. and when he is in, i spill out. and out. and out.

"wanting the wine...is more than just a ritual...it's darker"...

"it feels darker"...


[we are black or white. with an allergy to gray. and an appetite for self-destruction.]

"we only said goodbye with words, i died a hundred times..."

amy winehouse. a voice that carried her humiliations and disappointments like dandelion wisps on the wind. effortless beauty. her pain searing like alcohol into her willing wounds and plunging us all into her deep. her darkest moments become art. her darkest moments become dark. her darkest moments become death.


saying goodbye is simple. two words. but living goodbye is time. so i will say goodbye again and again and again...

for i don't want to go back to black.

1 comment:

  1. Keep working through it, Hen. I'd rather have you here.