Writing about drinking. Again. I guess that’s better than drinking.

I’ve always written.

To myself mostly, and then later to you folks on this blog, whoever you are. Friends? My brother? Strangers maybe.

So there’s this piece I wrote when I was a teenager, somewhere between 14 and 19. My writing from that time is difficult to read, maybe because those years are particularly heavy. Small events become twisted and tangled with insecurities and hormones and feel much larger, more weighted. I don’t know what was upsetting me in this particular piece of writing. A boy, or my parents, probably. What I said was that I longed for relief, in whatever form it may be. I said I wanted that feeling, that presumably people get when they take a drink. This was early days, and although I’d drank, i didn’t really. 

So I longed for relief, but clarified, not an actual drink because that just makes me feel nauseous and confused. 

When I think about drinking now, I know that will be what it feels like again. The first one anyway. Before it’s fingers get a hold again