Last night before I went to bed, I wrote in a diary that I have been keeping since the beginning of 2013. The book began as a mood diary; both an outlet to express difficult thoughts and emotions, and a means to trace them over time, with the hope that I could find patterns in my thought and gain a better understanding of the low moods which have troubled me for some years now. You probably wouldn’t want to read this book, as it is somewhat repetitive – but that was the whole point. Looking back, I can indeed see patterns which dictate the way I navigate my life both in times of low mood and in periods of stability and contentment. In last night’s entry I made a point of speaking from the first person, whereas a great proportion of the diary seems to come from some external voice…
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i thought i saw you all over
as the smoke ringed me.
i wanted to tell you something.
by Mari Casey
The most difficult part of my recovery today, the most terrifying prospect in my life is not related to an urge to use or a potential relapse. It’s about dating. I’m twenty-six and single—a fun idea, right?—except I have four years clean, and just the thought of going on a date turns me catatonic. They recommend a year without sex when you first get clean. I didn’t do it then, but I might get it now, and not for lack of desire.
In my life, there are two major categories of potential suitors: people “in the rooms”— recovering addicts at the meetings—or “normies”—those strange creatures who can drink just one beer, maybe even hit one joint every now and again, normal people. I’ve dated in the rooms before. Pros: mutual understanding, shared experience, easy to meet. Cons: dating someone as sick as you are, and the whole…
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Darling, I’m leaving.
precluding not the leakage of you from my corners.
then, the great expanse in between
when you feature not.
Now, when i don’t know why or where you have gone
i miss you
but four months is long enough to harden a heart.
you have not gone in me
nor yet do you stay. odourless, our interaction,
Filed under poetry, queer