It begins with tears. Nothing heavy, no sobs or wails or even tissues–just a couple of tears and a knot in my stomach.
That could just be the vodka and Xanax. (Isn’t Xanax supposed to block this kind of shit out?)
Then a voice in the back of my head says, “You can’t write through tears. You need to focus on something else. This is an exercise in futility.”
Fuck you. Watch me.
A few days ago at a Dollar General somewhere (Pine Level, Red Level?) in Alabama close to an I65 northbound exit I decided to say I don’t give a fuck to a lot of things and kept heading north instead of turning back south.
Turning back south and going home.
Turning back south and maybe going to the beach to get drunk with my friends.
Turning back south to pick up extra hours at work.
Turning back south to write something even more vapid and unimportant than this.
Turning back south to avoid my fears.
I realize that now, I’m just as afraid in this moment as I was then.
The difference is that now I know it is worth it to sit in this fear, and let it remind me of why we are all alive.
Staying home or going back.
Heading north, returning south.
Even if I miss that connection this time around,
All it means is that I felt something;
This time, something worthy of my fear.
And that is, in itself, something to write home about.
I just bled a little.