A Drink Called Bittersweet

Her eyes have been opened, again.

She had a mental breakdown, the kind that left her literally gasping for air.

But first, her eyes were opened. Again, and again.

They’ve been opened wider and wider during the past few years; the past year alone was a clusterfuck of eye-openings itself—more eye-openings than one should have to see in that small stretch of time. Human nature, religion, love, the world. Self.

Self. So much about self.

She can breathe and see somewhat normally now, so she takes another gulp of bittersweet, chilled wine, the crisp fuel washing its way over her tongue, tingling her taste buds, up to her palate, and mingling with her teeth, before it falls down her throat, less smoothly than the sips before it.

She only wanted to be left alone. To figure this journey out herself, apart from the culture.

But this life she was a part of won’t allow that. Can’t allow that.

And opening eyes don’t wait. They don’t wonder when it’s convenient for you. She knows this, yet it never fails to throw her off course.

Happiness in this life simply can’t be gained the old way. The way she’s been living most her life. It wasn’t there, too many holes to fill, too much self-loathing to nurse. She found happiness, eventually. Happiness with herself, with who she was.

Is.

But such self-awareness and joy came at a price.

Comes at a price.

Another swallow of Bittersweet, but the swallow has become a gulp.

She is free. But not free of consequences, of haunting reminders. Nothing is fair. Nothing. She has become one with herself—loves herself, she may even say. But in return she has given up the might-be of a next life.

Trial. Tribulation. Self-hatred. Those are the cost—the payment she must endure—for a potential of eternal joy.

She has made her choice.

She has gulped this bittersweet realization in sync with her wine. Her earthy, worldly comfort. Her stress-reliever. Her one of a few materialistic anxiety relievers and comforts. Her self-medication that has made dealing with all … this … more possible. Made it easier to think and observe life more clearly.  Made it easier to step back and …

Breathe.

Made loving herself that much easier.

Now, for self-love, she will be cut off.

Nothing feels just. Nothing feels right.

In her heart, she chucks the wine glass against the wall, screaming in rage as it shatters to a million pieces, shards injuring all things surrounding her until all of them …

Finally …

Hear her. See her. Understand her.

But outside her heart, she stares at the recently empty glass. Empty. Silent. Accepting. Alone.

She longs for comfort. Prays for it. But what she needs, now that Bittersweet has been swallowed, is more than emotional. She needs physical comfort. She’s been without it for so long. She needs the arms of someone she loves—here, before her. Constant. Never wavering.

Not sporadic comfort through a phone or a computer. She needs to feel the love. She aches for it, yearns for a voice against her, a heartbeat—a soul in physical presence, promising soundness. Promoting comfort rather than condemnation, promoting the love for herself she recently found. Assurance she is worth it, is on the right path.

Physical arms. Physical, raw embrace. Physical, raw, and warm presence.

Turning back to the bottle of Bittersweet, she finds it empty.