What's Black and White and Red All Over?

A newspaper, and my face

I woke up at 5:36 AM. I couldn't get back to sleep, so I went outside to smoke. I wanted to write, but the cold air reminded me that it was fall, and I forced myself to go back inside.

Six days ago, I fractured my face. It was a Wednesday, like many others, and I had a few too many cocktails. The 600 square feet that I was currently sharing with my roommate and two other “drifters” was dark, and when I tripped on the four inch tall pull out sofa, my cheek caught me on the metal edge of the poorly padded couch arm.

A softball sized bump appeared and Carrie-like blood sent me to the emergency room at three in the morning. Seven and a half hours later, I returned home. I haven’t been the same since.
Six days ago, I stopped drinking. When my dad asked me why, I told him I was sick of it. Even in Manhattan, the city that never sleeps, I was tired, and I couldn't take my partying lifestyle anymore. So I stopped. I just stopped. 

Physically, it hasn't been as hard as I thought it would be. I am not craving alcohol like I do when I put down cigarettes for a day or two. I don't have the shakes and I’m not experiencing any hot or cold flashes. Psychologically, it hasn't been as hard as I thought it would be either. I don't want to go out and drink. I chose to stop, and I'm glad I did. Mainly, I’m just bored. I find myself with many hours that used to be filled with toting around a wine glass, that now are so still. I grasp at anything that I can to keep my nights occupied.

Emotionally, it hasn't been as easy. My mind is becoming sharper and sharper while I have more time to think, and my thoughts often rest mourning things I have lost, things that could have been. I am ironing, and I remember when my mother taught me how to press my father’s dress shirts. I tear up because I want that time back. I hear familiar laughter in the hall, and want to be in college again. A whiff of cologne smells like yesteryear's  love, and I wonder what he’s doing now. I yearn for a day that's not today.

Memories pop up unexpectedly of the worst periods of my life – harsh words thrown down the stairs in the middle of the night, a loved one sobbing on their knees in agony, watching her car drive away as a familiar voice begs her not to go. I cry because there is a book inside me that I know needs writing. I cry because I don't know if I'm strong enough to write it.

And sleeping – sleeping is the worst. As darkness falls, I am alone with myself. My insides won’t shut up and I remember how the alcohol used to hush the worry. When I do sleep, I have horrible dreams. And dreams that are the opposite of horrible, the dreams about the best times of my life. They seem so real, and these anti-nightmares are worst than their nemesis. With a nightmare, the terror stops as soon as you wake up. You can take a deep breath, realizing that it was all in your head; you are okay. With a dream that is the opposite of a nightmare, a dream that was too good yet no longer true, you wake up and realize that time in your life is gone. The loss and longing is the reality versus the illusion.

I know things will get better with time, and that the only person who can change any of it is me and me alone. I know this, but for now, I'm just getting used to feeling again.