I gulped the last drop of white wine from my glass and stared away, lost in a funk. I thought I felt tears rolling down my face too. The alcohol rushed to my head too quickly, I shouldn’t have drunk that fast, but who cared? I was alone tonight, like every other night since I moved out a few months earlier.
Life had been difficult, and demanded a lot of adjustment but I made it. I was still alive, maybe not totally sane, but I’d get there, right? All the people I met told me it was normal for people in my situation to lose it for a while. The healing process took time, they said.
Yeah. It was my first time feeling this horrible, as if an evil mind had cut a hole through my heart and had eaten it for dinner raw, not even with any seasoning. I started getting depressed, but I took pills for that and it helped. The wine helped too.
I drank like never before, drowning myself into a blurry whirlwind of constant intoxication. I really thought I was right, and that not thinking about everything that happened during the past few years would actually help me get better.
Yeah. It didn’t work. Of course, it didn’t. Nothing came or left easy, not even that pain that lingered within the tissues of my brain, it wanted to stay for good. I didn’t really know what I was doing. I made lots of mistakes.
I liked the wine. I liked the drugs too. I liked everything that helped me forget about him.
But tonight, I just wanted to cry.
The Manicheans 