Some Days
Some Days
Are you so strong
Or is all the weakness in me?
Some days are harder than others. Some days you just really want to say 'fuck it all' and go back to staring at brown bottles and clear glasses and martini olives. Some days the coffee you drink is just a flashback to the coffee you drank to defeat hangovers on those rare days when you didn't fight a hangover with more alcohol.
Some days it's hard to crawl out of bed and open the curtains to let in sunlight. Some days it's more than enough to stumble into the shower and yawn as you wash your hair. Some days you have to force yourself to leave the house and drive to a friend's. Some days it seems it's more than it's worth to talk.
But you do it anyway.
You wake up in the morning so depression doesn't sink it from sleeping too much. You drive to Frankie's or Ray's or Mikey's. You change the commercials on TV so you aren't tempted. You make it to your therapy appointments.
One day you sat down with a piece of paper and wrote out your confession. One day words came pouring from your pen and you realized things you had never even considered. You stared at the words in amazement and then in disgust, crumpling up the lined paper and throwing it in the trash can, tears falling from your eyes.
A commercial came on the TV for some type of liquor, you weren't sure what. They found you in the bathroom, screaming and scribbling on the mirror with permanent marker.
Frankie took the marker and pushed you toward Mikey who wrapped his arms around you and tried his best to comfort you, whispering how you needed to talk and how proud he was of you for not drinking or tripping or cutting to escape. And you cried, not because of what he said, but because you were afraid he would stop loving you.
Frankie had said something about the mirror, but no one noticed. He barely did. You heard the bathroom door shut and Mikey said something about not wanting you here by yourself. Twenty minutes later you were crying on his couch and he was hugging you again.
"I'm sorry." you whispered over and over, willing the words to make all the bad thoughts in your mind disappear. "Mikey, I'm sorry."
"It's okay." he said, kissing the top of your head. "I love you, you know that?"
"Even when I'm fucked up?" you asked, your head buried in his chest, your hands clutching at his shirt.
"Even when you're fucked up." he assured you, running a soothing hand across your back.
"Promise?"
He laughed softly and slipped a hand under your chin, pulling your face up to his. "Promise." he said, kissing your forehead and running the pads of his thumbs underneath your eyes, wiping away your tears. "I could never stop loving you, Gee. You're my blood."
And that day . . . you smiled. Your first genuine smile since you started this.
Some days are still harder than others, but you wake up. You put on the coffee and you can sit through the commercials. You pick up the phone or the car keys when you feel like you're going to cave in. You write out your confessions, you were raised Catholic, after all.
And Mikey's there everyday, sometimes just to smile and somedays to hold you when you break down yet again. "You're so strong." he tells you when you feel weak, when you just want to have a beer or a Xanax and forget everything. "You'll do this, Gerard. You'll beat it."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Or is all the weakness in me?
Some days are harder than others. Some days you just really want to say 'fuck it all' and go back to staring at brown bottles and clear glasses and martini olives. Some days the coffee you drink is just a flashback to the coffee you drank to defeat hangovers on those rare days when you didn't fight a hangover with more alcohol.
Some days it's hard to crawl out of bed and open the curtains to let in sunlight. Some days it's more than enough to stumble into the shower and yawn as you wash your hair. Some days you have to force yourself to leave the house and drive to a friend's. Some days it seems it's more than it's worth to talk.
But you do it anyway.
You wake up in the morning so depression doesn't sink it from sleeping too much. You drive to Frankie's or Ray's or Mikey's. You change the commercials on TV so you aren't tempted. You make it to your therapy appointments.
One day you sat down with a piece of paper and wrote out your confession. One day words came pouring from your pen and you realized things you had never even considered. You stared at the words in amazement and then in disgust, crumpling up the lined paper and throwing it in the trash can, tears falling from your eyes.
A commercial came on the TV for some type of liquor, you weren't sure what. They found you in the bathroom, screaming and scribbling on the mirror with permanent marker.
Frankie took the marker and pushed you toward Mikey who wrapped his arms around you and tried his best to comfort you, whispering how you needed to talk and how proud he was of you for not drinking or tripping or cutting to escape. And you cried, not because of what he said, but because you were afraid he would stop loving you.
Frankie had said something about the mirror, but no one noticed. He barely did. You heard the bathroom door shut and Mikey said something about not wanting you here by yourself. Twenty minutes later you were crying on his couch and he was hugging you again.
"I'm sorry." you whispered over and over, willing the words to make all the bad thoughts in your mind disappear. "Mikey, I'm sorry."
"It's okay." he said, kissing the top of your head. "I love you, you know that?"
"Even when I'm fucked up?" you asked, your head buried in his chest, your hands clutching at his shirt.
"Even when you're fucked up." he assured you, running a soothing hand across your back.
"Promise?"
He laughed softly and slipped a hand under your chin, pulling your face up to his. "Promise." he said, kissing your forehead and running the pads of his thumbs underneath your eyes, wiping away your tears. "I could never stop loving you, Gee. You're my blood."
And that day . . . you smiled. Your first genuine smile since you started this.
Some days are still harder than others, but you wake up. You put on the coffee and you can sit through the commercials. You pick up the phone or the car keys when you feel like you're going to cave in. You write out your confessions, you were raised Catholic, after all.
And Mikey's there everyday, sometimes just to smile and somedays to hold you when you break down yet again. "You're so strong." he tells you when you feel weak, when you just want to have a beer or a Xanax and forget everything. "You'll do this, Gerard. You'll beat it."
"Promise?"
"Promise."