I can feel that I’m curled up in the fetal position on a wood floor. I’m not entirely sure why I’m waking up until I taste sherbert – my body remembers the harsh edge of vodka and how I pushed my body on survival; my muscles remember the ache in my torso as my body dutifully worked at expelling all of the poison I’d thrown at it. My eyes fly open – not unlike gaining consciousness in the ER bed with no control over my body’s activities – but it’s a muscle level flashback.
I’m alone and lying on a dark wood floor. Outside of arm’s reach, a broken bottle of Fireball whiskey that looks like it was never opened. I slowly crawl around the liquid and reach for the larger pieces of bottle very sure that I don’t want to just leave broken glass on the floor. My stomach muscles contract again (muscle level flashback), and I know that I’m not supposed to touch the bottle.
Pijača certainly made an impression as she left (I usually don’t get dreams that pull from my memories this vividly). I don’t feel like I’m in danger of repeating the questionable alcoholic overdose scenario from about a year ago (mentioned a while back, but definitely not new news here) right now, but my People want me to err on the side of caution for the foreseeable future. With Pijača gone, I don’t know if They’re uneasy at the lack of supervision or what. Just consistently getting a “come back after getting your mental illness ducks in a row” response.