When I let the mask slip..
a story of "old me" for the "new year"
Lately I’ve been noticing pieces of the vengeful, vice-ridden part of me getting riled up. Perhaps it’s the elusiveness of this time; the dismal grey of winter outside reflected within. The unveiling of dim houses, naked and stripped bare of their Christmas lights. The glimmer and facade of the “holiday spirit” fading into abysmal abyss.
And then I see my vices slipping into this…
What would just one drink do? A part of me thinks as I watch the couple in the booth next to me slink into Santa Baby bliss. What about two?
Despite being sober for 7 years (perhaps it’s the itch), I cling to other things that could grant me the quick fix alcohol used to.
Can I get a buzz off this cigarette? I contemplate it in my hands, forgetting I’ll take the smell & shame home in my hair with me. Finding its way into my shower, my sheets— like a lover I forgot to ask to leave.
The morning after indulging brings the same shame spiral that drinking once did.. why did I compromise my boundaries for a night of debauchery? And why, why can’t I? Me? Why SHOULDN’T I be able to?
Resembling Bilbo staring longingly at his One Ring, I slip into the invisible safety my unsafe net provides, despite how bad it is for my lungs, my heart, my thighs.
Inviting in those who won’t stay for longer than Christmas break, because what’s the point in being good for goodness sake if boredom is the reality? Boredom is the danger I face in the face of this perceived safety.
When I feel the mask begin to slip, when pieces of “old me” permeate through with intensity, I reground and come back to me. Keep myself, my hands busy. Wield off the cravings with the shield of self compassion.
Instead of spiraling into the cloudiness, I reconnect with what really grounds me: connecting with nature, with myself, keeping an eye on my screen time, keeping busy with friends, keeping myself in check.