Page 7 of Break Your Fall

I need an on and off switch for feelings. Can that exist? FEELINGS: OFF.

I stop walking at the kitchen, the sinking in my stomach still there. I have no appetite on top of a strong craving for Fruity Pebbles. The desire to eat away my sadness with my favorite cereal brings me closer to home. Closer to me, and my head is still trying to create distance with myself.

Being me hurts.

Being my mother hurts.

Everything still hurts.

My eyes find the fridge, picture the outline of what I’m hoping is inside behind the door. The switch does exist. It doesn’t turn off your feelings exactly, but it changes them, makes them easier to live with.

I stalk to the fridge and open the door. No wine bottle. My mom must’ve finished it off last night while I was. . .

I bite down on my lip as I glance around the kitchen. There’s more somewhere. My eyes finally land on the lip of a bottle sticking up behind an old microwave box—one of her hiding spots—on top of the fridge. I leap up and grab the bottle, then aim for the corkscrew and a wine glass, those remaining in their same spots. I slam the cupboard door and the drawer, slapping my handfuls onto the countertop with sharp sounds just to have some noise.

She’s going to be mad, reminds a voice in my head as I get to work opening the bottle.

Let her,I think back.

“Just one glass,” I say aloud as I pour the wine halfway, the slight echo of my voice reminding me I’m alone while giving me a prickling sensation of eyes roaming my skin.

I fill the glass.

Julian’s all over my bedroom. When I make it back, I feel his touch as my eyes skirt to my bed. I hear his laughter and his words bouncing off the walls. Theyallhave a place here, in my memory. They’re in my art, canvases painted just for me, reminders of my life.

My past life now.

I didn’t just lose a boyfriend.

I lost a friend.

Friends.

How do I move on from this? From people I can’t let go, people I grew up with, people who know me inside and out. People I still want in my life, who I feel incomplete without. How do I let this go? How do I do that?

I take a gulp of the wine and grimace as it slides down my throat. I don’t know how people drink this shit for fun.

Shitprobably tastes better.

I scoff at myself—the only semblance of a laugh I can muster—as I approach my studio. I yank my painting off the easel without looking at it and grab a fresh canvas from under my drawing table. I prop it up, my grip around the bowl of the glass in my other hand getting tighter, and drop down onto my stool.

I’m going to sit here and paint. I’m going to do what I love and make myself proud. Everything is normal.

Except for me, taunts the wine in my hand.

Nobody wants your work but you, says my head.

Everything is rubbing at my already sore spots.

My eyes blur as I gulp down another drink, grimacing through the swallow. I take two more drinks as I open my laptop and press play on my song. “First Day of My Life” by Bright Eyes. It’s my favorite song. It’s not nineties. It’s not my mother’s. It’s just mine.

And it’s being ruined.

I can’t move. I can’t get back up to gather my paints and brushes. The music bleeds into me, blends in with my broken insides, slips through the cracks instead of repairing them. I can’t separate them now. The same music that fueled me yesterday, paralyzes me today.

Today is worse.

My eyes blur more and tears run down my cheeks with just one blink. My grip tightens around the glass before it can slip from my hand, some wine sloshes over the rim, and the tears won’t stop.

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