It’s hardly an art though. Disappearing is regrettably easy. There are hundreds of ways to do it. Loudly. Quietly. Out with a bang. Into the shadows. We all disappear in small ways every day. Some of us more than others.
I am rather practiced at it myself. I have learned to be physically present, but not emotionally or spiritually. I withdraw into myself too easily. I disappear in silence.
I disappear into books, movies, sleep. I disappear into my room, my office, my car.
I try really hard to disappear from myself: I try cutting, I try drinking, I try eating and not eating. Running from yourself is the hardest disappearing act. You can’t do it.
I am over six months sober. Tonight I am fervently, earnestly planning a relapse. I can taste it. I can almost feel the cloud of fog at the edge of my vision, ready to embrace me into its oblivion.
There is a symphony of lies in my head. And I want to believe them. The truths that I am singing are harder, quieter. I am still learning all of their notes.
The lies are melodic and enchanting. Repeating in my head like well-known old friends.
I checked my email.
I ate too many cookies.
I wandered around the house aimlessly.
I still plotted.
I am still sitting here, itching to claw my way out of my own head. The lesson I cannot seem to learn is finding peace in being myself. Embracing the soul that inhabits this body. Embracing the body that holds this soul.
I am fighting everyday, the learning to be ok in my own skin.
I want more, and less, and everything, and nothing. I run to the edges of myself and back. Again and again.
I’ve spent two-hundred-and-three days fighting the urge to hide in alcohol. Two-hundred-and-three days learning honesty and different ways to disappear –lessons of extremes I dabble in.
I am better at disappearing than I am at being present.
I go to sleep now.