Southern Legitimacy Statement: Monica Viera lived in the 7th ward in New Orleans after getting accepted into a writing commune. She lived in a shotgun house and warded off crackheads on her walk to work in the French Quarter.
Fighting the Death Instinct
You had bragged that you were built for this kind of honesty, this anti-materialistic hardened spiritual way of things. But you feel yourself wilt without benzodiazepines and you know you don’t want to do this sober- its too painful. Your edges have never been sharper.
You stay in bed watching episode after show of Dr. Phil scanning, simply glossing over the shows to withstand the hollow brutality of your reality.
You are upset that you are alone again. You had wanted it to work, for once.
At 32 years old, you’ve had a string of boyfriends already, none of them ending in marriage. You know that the odds are you’re the problem. That notion makes it hard to fall into that deep sleep that once made you look forward to depression.
You don’t even know if you want to get married. The idea of loving just one person seems daunting and who knows about all the financial responsibility of it?
Plus, you’ve been burned more times than you can count on both hands. Its probably not worth the risk if you still want to stay….
Afloat. Merely existing. That’s all you’re doing when you’re single. Your life is led from one bowel movement to another. Feeling a need and then satisfying it. You don’t know what you want. All these other people your age have goals and families. You know you’re drifting further apart than the norm. You used to like that when you could still see the masses in your peripheral, but you don’t now. You are too far out to sea.
You wished you were thriving, but you aren’t. And in life, one is either thriving or dying. Your death instinct is louder than your life instinct and you have no control over your self-destructive urges. They whisper to you to call your ex from a blocked number. To see if there is still hope there, but there is none. They discarded you already and you still haven’t made peace with it.
Lord knows you aren’t living well. You’ve been drug free for a week and everything feels daunting and lords over you. Financial security, peace, secure relationships, these things are withheld from you into you evolve. But like you always feared, you can’t evolve. If you were going to, you would have by now, right?
So today you’re in bed. You’re draped in a large Mexican winter blanket watching Dr. Phil drone as he does. He says now and then, “That is offensive to my sensibilities.” You laugh at how ridiculous that sentence is. You hope your booty call will text you back.
But mainly, you wait for a goddamn miracle.
Single and sober is a terrible combination for an anxious motherfucker like you.
The question is- will you let the pull get you again? The death instinct that’s been like a comfort food to your soul?
You used to rip yourself apart for art. You don’t write or paint anymore. Why still the urge to claw away?
Just watch more Dr. Phil until your eyes start to peel. Take a Tylenol pm. Stuff those angry flashbacks of your abusive ex back into the pit of your stomach. Tomorrow will be a new day. New episodes of Dr. Phil, another day trying to soften edges sober.
