I’m depressed today. Lean into the pain they tell me.
I remember I didn’t celebrate the 4th that year, 2014. She said she needed space the weekend before and went to stay with her cousin. All week I was alone with her things in our apartment. July 4th was a Friday. She met me at home after school. I wanted to propose. It was the day before our three year anniversary. We talked for so long. Neither one of us could remember what we had fought or said about seven days prior that made her pack up. We sat and talked for so long. Then we cried together. Holding each other, getting the other slimy with our snot.
We moved from the couch to the kitchen table. I think she had some food she needed to take home with her. The apartment was no longer our home. It became her temporary storage unit; it became my open cell.
I walked her out to her car. We hugged. She slipped, from habit, and said “I love you”.
“I know.” my inner Han Solo replied for me.
I went out, after she drove away in her red convertible, and bought a 1.75L bottle of Bacardi white rum & juice (grapefruit iirc). Two liters of juice. I drank all the rum, one liter of grapefruit juice, and woke up on my kitchen floor the next mourning.
I kept drinking like that for the next six months until December 5th, her birthday. I didn’t celebrate my birthday(1) that year. My George Clooney with lots of tattoos looking boss made me work, and bitter about his own life, while guilt tripping me about how he couldn’t remember the last birthday he had and how his wife left him and generally showing me how much bigger his saddness boner was. Everyone forgot my birthday that year except for me. I was trying to forget by the end though.
By December: I had lost my job, I dropped(2) out of school, and I had accumulated $5.000 in credit card debt. On the fifth, a grey and wet mourning, I walked 1.8 miles or 2.897km to the nearest Schnucks off Grand and Gravois. On the way, I passed a forgotten a 2 foot or 60.96cm sub sandwich that was still in its package and untouched off Grand. At the store I bought two 1.75L bottles of cheap clear booze and 2 gallons or 7.571L of cheap orange juice(3). I checked out precisely at 7am(4) and the cashier lady gave me a look. I couldn’t tell if it was envy or pity. I wasn’t looking too closely. It was a Friday.
On the way home, I took the sub with me. I drank and slept and ate and drank and slept until late in the evening when, apparently, I called a couple friends of mine, as in a couple whom I was friends with, and they took me to get some tacos. I was violently shaky. Couldn’t eat. Mentioned wanting some bam bams. Got pulled aside and threatened with violence. They left me at my place. Told them I was going to drink and pill myself. They yelled at me, from the safety of their vehicle, “Get back in the fucking car.”
So cold and shaky. I couldn’t hold a drink. I vomit on my laptop. I ran a bath to warm my self up. I fell asleep in the tub naked and alone.
Two year later and I’ve sobered up but the pain pulses weakly still.
- 23, September 1988
- Technically, I graduated early but I was one absent day from being kicked out. Also my grades were piss. However it was a technical school so I guess technicalities count.
- I’m not even sure if the stuff is real orange juice or if it is its like that stuff from the cardboard tube that you add water to that tastes like orange water.
- The earliest legal time one can purchase alcohol in St Louis, or earliest that I was aware of at the time. It might have been moved back to 6.30am.