No internet and my paws have been yearning to swim the keyboard, so I compromise with a “to post later” in my Open Office. I sat and thanked myself for taking time to think today, before I started being productive. Then again that started around the crow of the cock and not the time you want to be checking any kind of clock.
I moved all the way into my room, but still only half way. It's a jail cell regardless, and it doesn't represent myself as well as it should. All the ways a home should be, it is not. I keep busy just to stay busy, and almost spend my last two dimes on a router to get internet to mine and JD's computers, or any other persons for that matter. I stopped and thunked a think, and instead did dishes in the kitchen-bathroom-hallway sink.
No one came into our room, except for one visitor, welcomed at that. We printed off papers for work, and yelled at a slow computer. The afternoon doesn't move as fast as the evening. Organizing and filing is something I've always left for my mother, but found myself doing it now, and liking it. Consumed with busy but productive work, I built up a sweat. Bragg isn't what I remembered, but nothing is. I find sleeping hard without the trash bag clanking in the morning. Since this is my first night of sobriety there hasn't really been to much otherwise variety.
I didn't expect any of this to happen to me. I thought I was mentally tougher, and that the effects of a deployment would not rain on my head. My eyes are red.
This morning was the real kicker that I was home. It wasn't the pizza, beer, or sex that made it sink in, it was running hungover at to early of an hour with the bottle cap's bruising pouring out of mine, and everyone else's pits. The long street seemed longer than before, and the old aches and pains of asphalt knees and shuffle stomped backs were the only reminder of what was a year ago. Thank god we have Brown to help us move slow.
The decisions are the hardest. Perhaps, though, maybe the motivation to make one is what's toughest. It's too bright of a light in the eyes and I'm still squinting. I try and do nothing, which gets me in more trouble, and the only medication every other time I'm not doing anything is a sinful one. I guzzle this bottle and that one. Buy a case for this place, and that one too. But tonight I pass the Class XI aisle without a regret, and without purchase. I suppose in the car on my way back to prison that it's because I can try and face sleep or lack there of on my own. But a room full of people, or a decision other than work tomorrow, and what to do with the night is easier chosen, especially when placed at my feet. Easily I kick those ones off the mat and each night institutionalized is easier at that.
I do laundry and worry about ruining my perfect bed. Brush and floss my teeth till they bleed, and then drink another glass of water in fear and preparation. I separate mine from Danny's and refuse to fold his underwear because I still am sane enough to know I'm not his mother. I turn on some Floyd to help with the settling for the night, and am still too much of an adolescent to think that 12:15 AM is late. I debate on what next I should do, and decide to try and write another line. Not tonight, maybe another time.
Welcome to the machine...
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