Damned If I Do, Damned If I Dont

I got clean. They stayed dirty. You don’t get to rewrite me. And now I speak.

Artwork by: Shain Parwiz

They’d call me a drunk.

They’d gossip.

They’d mock.

Times I passed out under the void deck.

Times I was so gone,

I didn’t even know how I got home.

Muscle memory, I guess.

But I’m no gym rat,

so how the hell would I have muscles?

They see me,

and they see that same stumbling fool.

Like I was walking barefoot on a sea of Legos.

Sharp. Angular. Shaped.

Thinking I drank for pleasure,

not that it was me trying to cope.

That I carried guilt, shame, and trauma.

That almost all the time,

I wanted to do the final clock out.

My mind…

my mind was…

Like a shipping container,

filled with nothing but darkness,

and voices that bounced off the walls,

creating a crescendo of noise

my brain couldn’t comprehend.

So yes, I should have reached out.

Should’ve said: “Hey, I’m dying in real time here. How about some help?”

I couldn’t say that.

Because then,

questions.

And I could already hear the reply

before it even left their snouts:

“Get over it.”

“It’s not that hard.”

“Touch grass.”

I tried that,

got bitten by red ants.

Hands swollen. Pain unbearable.

By creatures so small,

the pain didn’t correlate.

I know why.

They had things I didn’t.

Planned. Purpose. Precision.

I was none of those things.

Just liquid courage, false fronts, and a sharp tongue.

Some stayed.

Most left.

Abandoned ship like I was the Titanic.

It took decades,

but I got sober.

Not because of them.

No sir. No way.

I failed multiple times,

like a guy redoing a quiz

and still getting it wrong.

But I did manage it.

Luck not included.

Through gritted teeth,

skin sensations like electricity.

Oh, and the paranoia,

how could I forget?

That invisible force

making me hear sounds

and see things.

Cats outside my window,

while I’m living on the sixth floor.

Tremors that felt like earthquakes,

like they could shatter a whole city.

Off the Richter scale.

Scale. Scaled. Slimy.

Somehow, I pulled it off.

No big reveal.

Nothing inspiring.

Can’t make money telling people

how I came through the other side.

No “Click the link below.”

No team will get back to you

in two business days

if you’re eligible.

None of that.

It’s the same now.

Nothing’s changed.

I still get people telling me

how I was.

Meanwhile,

they don’t see who I am.

And they’re surprised

when I walk away.

Away.

A weigh.

A way.

I still have my guilt, shame, and trauma.

I won’t pretend I fucking don’t.

Because doing that

is the same as drinking,

denial, avoidance, and deflecting.

Now I just speak to it.

Not asking it to leave.

Because it would only double down.

Like the unwanted tenant

you try to evict,

but the law isn’t on your side.

Side.

Site.

Sighed.

Now that I see clearly,

after 27 years,

I grow weary.

And wary.

Worried I’ll go back to the container.

And cave in.

Just like last time.

I try to speak the truth.

When they ask how they can do it,

they don’t like my answers.

Because truth doesn’t come

with butterfly wings.

It comes in like the wall of death

at a hardcore show.

They don’t like that.

They want platitudes.

Positivity.

Standard-issue slogans

So it would fit their narrative.

So they hurl insults.

Juvenile.

Off the mark.

They keep punching down.

Like I’m still there.

Still drunk.

Still lost.

Just because they hated,

how I responded,

to the advice they thought they wanted,

only to have something else delivered.

I can’t give you what you want.

Because if I don’t believe it,

why would I say it?

I show them their mirror.

Hoping they’ll see:

My words weren’t attacks.

It wasn’t personal.

It was the reality

I wish someone gave me.

So now I’m here.

Clean.

Sober.

Still getting treated

like a dog.

Abused.

Abuse.

A use.

Hate me if I ghost you.

Call me a coward

for not staying in a scenario

where I might get tempted.

Remind me again

what the fuck I did.

I want that.

Not because I’m immune,

but because I need it.

To fill the gas tank

of a car I never drove.

So fuck you and your expectations.

Don’t come at me

like you know me.

Because you only knew me.

Author’s Note:

This was a tough one to record.

I didn’t consider the emotions piece would bring.

It became a process of me, not trying to breakdown.

As I was mixing it, I regretted being sick.

Because I didn’t have any voice left for retracks.

So if it sounds messy, know that I tried my best.

There’s no tricks, no whispers, nothing of the sort.

Just one solitary voice, cracked and unbalanced.

Sometimes, reliving words and memories can hurt, A lot.

This is for the ones that are still fighting.

You got this.

-Shain