It was my secret. I had a lot of secrets, dammed up inside of my head, little things I hid for the sheer pleasure of holding on to the façade of a normal life. But this secret was different. Because someone else knew.
Well, I had always thought that they had known, hoped, blindly believed. That was before. This is now, when the thought of myself "sharing" my secret with that certain person hurts me inside, makes me wonder how I had done it for so long.
Just thinking about it now makes me ache; my tongue swells slightly, feeling dry. I lick my chapped lips and take a sip of water, knowing that it won't quench my thirst like the amber liquid lying dormant in the cupboard.
Water can't make you forget.
I shake my head slowly, in a futile attempt to clear it. It doesn't work. Memories seem to flood all of my senses, overtaking me. I open the cupboard and pull out the bottle. Before I can stop myself, I pour a glass. Watching my hand shake, I almost force myself to swallow.
I forgo the glass almost immediately, sitting with the bottle at my side. I feel the potency begin to seep through my veins, reaching the flush of my cheeks, the reddened pads of my fingertips.
Slowly drinking myself into a stupor, I feel both better and worse. I've been taken captive by my own bad judgment. I settle comfortingly into my stance of self-loathing when I realize I now hold an empty bottle.
I didn't even have the strength to pour out the stupid thing, my last one. I had wanted it there, teasing me, so once that I had beaten it I could feel and see the victory, face down my source of shame. My hub of utter disappointment.
Once my affinity for alcohol surfaced a few months ago, everyone assumed that it was the pressure. A kid thrust into the spotlight at an early age, don't they always turn to some sort of addiction to help them cope with such a public life? A scandalous break-up with an equally famous person? Having such money and power while still so young?
I laugh bitterly to myself. If only the media knew. Knew why I choose to poison myself slowly with alcohol and watch my life deteriorate. If they only knew just how little power I truly have.
I'm a weak person, that's why I drink, why I can't stop. What I blame it on in that dark little hidden corner of my mind is a different story.
I feel like such a walking contradiction. I ask myself the same question all the time, in each instance never coming up with a response that is justifiable. Nothing makes sense anymore, least of all my feelings.
I trace my steps back through my mind, trying to find that exact moment, the moment where everything seemed to fit perfectly. That same moment was also the beginning of my downfall. Granted, I didn't know it at the time; I was busy filling my head with dreams and plans for my life. Our life.
But I learned the hard way. Life is what happens when you're dreaming and planning.
I settle back, content to let the alcohol I've drunk work its magic, and continue to torture myself. I ask that same question I've had for years over and over, knowing I wont come to an answer.
How can you love someone so much it hurts, yet hate them because it does, all at the same time?
And I struggle to answer, pulling strings attached to old memories...