Page 213 of Tell Me I'm Enough

I don’twantto die. I just…don’t want to live likethisanymore. I don’t want my mind on a constant repeat of all my father’s words that are really just how I feel about myself, said out loud. I don’t want my heart aching every day for my damn mom, who isn’t here to hold me and tell me it’s okay. I don’t want this incredibly scary overprotectiveness I feel for those boys that makes me physically ill knowing I can’t prevent all the bad in the world from coming their way. I don’t want to feel like such a fuck up all the time that I can’t enjoy life. I can’t even entertain the thought of love because love for me comes with too many land mines.

I’m just…tired.

When does the break come?

I beat my fist against my leg, fighting the urge to get up and go downstairs. There’s this pull, like something I don’t have control over. It’s urgent and feels on fire inside me. I can taste it on my tongue before it’s there. I can feel the weight of the bottle sitting in my hand before I’ve even grabbed it. I can imagine the relief it would give me, like it’s something tangible, something Ineed. My mouth goes dry just thinking about it.

My hands won’t stay still. I keep rubbing my palms on my thighs, flexing my fingers, opening and closing them. My leg bounces on its own, fast and restless, a nervous energy buzzing under my skin that won’t shut the fuck up.

It would be so easy to give in to the clawing need, and that’s the worst part. Nobody would know, no one would even care, because no one is honestly expecting anything better.

Just walk.

Just grab it.

Just one.

My brain keeps trying to convince me to do it like someone trying to coax a wild animal into a trap.

One drink wouldn’t count.

One drink would calm this down.

One drink would make the noise stop.

My brain is so loud right now, trying desperately to convince me to give in to what it wants.

My stomach twists; it’s not hunger or nausea, it’s something anxious, like my brain and body are trying to brace for something bad happening if I don’t give in.

I try to breathe slowly. In through my nose. Out through my mouth.

It does nothing.

My throat feels like itwantsthe burn, like it misses the way alcohol slides down and takes everything with it—thoughts, feelings, memories—dragging them under and drowning them for a little so I don’t have to feel any of it.

I hate how convincing it sounds, because the voice in my head isn’t mean or angry or loud; it’s coaxing, nice even, trying to help me.

You’ve had a long day.

You’re trying. That should count for something.

You can stop again tomorrow.

I pace the room, running my hand through my hair and down my face, trying to wipe away the urges and feelings clouding all reasonable thinking. Everything feels like too much right now; every small sound is blaring in my ears, and every movement makes me feel like I want to double over and beg it all to just stop.

I can’t help but think about Simone, about the way she looks at me when she’s sad or scared for me, about the way she canlook at me and believe in me more than I’ve ever believed in myself.

I want to be what she sees.

The thought of her makes everything feel worse and better at the same time.

I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, trying to ground myself in something physical, digging my nails into my palm again, where they’re already sore, just enough to sting—just enough to feel something that isn’t the cravings.

My body keeps arguing with my brain. My brain says no, and my body keeps sayingplease. It’s exhausting, fighting something that lives inside you, fighting something that feels like it knows you better than you know yourself.

I don’twantto drink. I want what drinkinggivesme.

Wanting peace shouldn’t feel this damn painful.