I drink because I’m afraid.
I imagined myself strutting into a mall. Black strappy low-heeled mules, blue mom jeans and a ‘spicy’ top to match. I’m meeting a friend and I know it’s likely people will be staring. So I take a swig of vodka for courage and to suppress the awkwardness that comes with self-consciousness. I’ll also need to engage and socialize and all that, so yes, another swig for that.
I want to be light, free, spontaneous and all the things I don’t know how to be when I’m not under the influence.
I’m not a shy person — to a very large extent, I’m not. Socially awkward, however? Yes, I may be.
I don’t know how to participate in conversations, I barely take up space and I think I even make other people feel awkward. It’s frustrating because I believe I’m pretty likeable. I can hold interesting conversations and I’m also quite fascinating myself.
When I sit down to work; process thoughts, ideas or concepts, I start with a glass of wine and music that feeds my soul. I drink because it allows me to connect with the most honest version of myself and I’m afraid I’ll never be able to reach her without it.
A few months ago, I wrote that: There’s no point romanticizing writing if it means you never write and there’s no point romanticizing creating art if it means you never create.
Yet, I still haven’t done much of both. Not writing and not creating art.
Instead, I think a lot about the freedom with which I once ‘created’ and how great it would be to find my way back to that because this place I have found myself constantly leaves me in doubt and drunk in hope that I’ll make something grand. Something that’ll scream greatness and be an embodiment of ‘genius’.
But all I’ve been so far is afraid. And drunk. And ashamed that I’m drunk because I’m afraid.
