I remember

I'm starting to realize that I may in fact have an alcohol problem. I hesitate to call it a problem per se because I don't actually have a problem with the fact that I drink a lot. An alcohol addiction, perhaps.

I just don't care. I sit there, vodka bottle in hand, and realize that I don't care. I don't care about school, my health, my friends, my future. I cannot bring myself to care. I want to, trust me. I see people, ambitious driven people, and I long to be like that, but I'm not.

I do fine. I function. I realize that my life could be worse. I realize that I generally get what I want. I think I may enjoy being miserable. Not miserable, really; apathetic I guess.

I knew how I was when I lived alone last time. How I spiraled into a mess fairly quickly. Yet I chose to do it again.

I remember sitting on my bathroom floor with a drink in my hands crying.

I remember waking up at 4 in the afternoon with the realization that I hadn't eaten in 4 days.

I remember chopping up oxy pills on the counter; hors d'oeuvres to my alcoholic beverage of choice. The xanax bars, the sleeping pills, the cocaine.

I remember going through the contacts list on my phone trying to decide whether I wanted to call anyone; feeling heartbroken realizing that the people I wanted to talk to most wanted nothing to do with me.

I remember going to work like a zombie. Pale with bones jutting out, perfectly straight hair and impeccable makeup.

I remember customers telling me not to lose any more weight.

I remember other customers fawning over my body, asking me how I stayed in such 'good' shape.

I remember not caring then, too.