Bubbling Up

I was filled with rage hearing conversation at the coffee shop.

Then talking to coworker about work issues. Bubbling up.

I could snap. Throw this glass or turn around and scream shut up.

My body is filled with energy.

I want to scream, which usually means I want to drink, which usually means I want to feel out of control, without impulse control.

I want to run in the street and visit that crazy 20 year old. Why did she have to die? I need her.

I want to go on a run, drive fast. Listen to loud music.

That book. Brought emotions. Thinking of that person. Who is my ex husband. 

Where it all began, where it all went wrong. Down the drain. The marriage, my heart. Engulfed with flames. That 23 year old never expected. She would have screamed for the 20 year old to come back. But she is gone, not completely, but sleeping. Forever. Maybe.

But now I’m 27. Where did those tears go? Everything falls away. My hat says responsible. Adult. What? Therapist. Responsible. Controlled. 

I tense my legs as tight as they can go. Anything to release this. Pain? Anger? Energy?

I want to stuff it down. With white wine. With beer. Sometimes I dream of it. I have the beers I rarely drank then. The bottled ones. Not the cans made of cheap. But I’d take any of it. Maybe I’d order a cocktail. I’d chug it from a straw. Until I felt it moving through my veins. Through my blood. Then I’d feel free to… scream. Destruct. My hat would no longer say that. Now it says party girl, friend , though not really because I scream at my friends, put them in danger. That’s ok, right? Because this is all out of fun. Everyone is doing it. 

My name is now….. she can hold her alcohol. Alcoholic? No. Well that’s what my alcoholic mind says. No, you could drink again. You could have one.  I want to drink a thick, dark beer. Who knows what that’s even called. I don’t recall the name though I can see the bottle in my mind, I can taste it going down my throat. I can feel twisting off the cap. Peeling the label off. Reaching in the box or fridge for more. 

Why do they still get to drink? The ones who stood next to my 20 year old. Didn’t they black out, too? Didn’t they puke? Didn’t they drink and drive? Didn’t they yell? Didn’t they reach for more? And count how many were left? That wasn’t just me, I know it. I remember. Or do I?

And here I am. Getting to my sisters after the chiropractor. Responsible, remember. My neck hurts. Where is the weed to ease the pain? The alcohol to make it better. Watch a Christmas movie. Then go to bed. 27 year old is here. 20 year old is breaking through, opening my ribs. Screaming to come out. My 27 year old pushes her back in. Though her arms were already reaching out. She is pushed down. And 27 year old goes on like nothing happened.