"it's not healthy to
drink alone in your room."

the soft-spoken statement
makes me stand still -
caught like a deer
in headlights -
on my trek back to the
self-isolation chamber
i call my
bedroom.

with the second bottle of
moscato
sweating in my hands,
i paused.
turning to face my father,
gazing into the gentle
green-grey eyes
that once resembled my own,
fake grin plastered to my face,
i scrambled to produce a
response.

"it's all good."

"are you okay?"

the question stumps me.
it's been so long
since anyone has asked me
that question
in a context where they can
see my immediate
facial response.

schooling my expression into
a practised one of
unbothered joviality,
my response falls flat
even to my ears,
"I'm fine. It's okay."
my feet take me from the
tense encounter before
my dad can call me out
on my bullshit.

returning to my
toxic safe haven,
my mind unravels as it
ponders his question
over and over.

"are you okay?"

no,
dad,
I'm not.

I'm fucking lonely.

I'm almost 23,
and spending my
work-free time
drinking alone in my room.
alcohol makes it easier
to get through the long
days.
time flies by
and i can remain in
happily tipsy ignorance
until it's a
socially acceptable
time for bed.

my mind is cast back to
my first 2 years at university.
swigging from bottles of spirits
to keep away the flashbacks and
bouts of depression.
did you know you're not meant to drink
alcohol when on antidepressants?

the thing is:
I've been on antidepressants
since I was 14.
almost 9 years on
the largest dose of
antidepressants possible -
that shit's like candy to me.
it's part of my genetic makeup.
sometimes I fear I'm more
antidepressant than human,
but that fear is shoved to the back
of my consciousness with
sweet sweet alcohol.

my sober brain
finds truth in the fantasies
I work hard to convince myself of.

that discovering my
nonbinary identity
brought back
my body dysmorphia
and disordered eating habits.
that now I binge
without regard to my health,
fascinated as I watch the numbers rise -
eager to differentiate myself
from the skeletal remains
I inhabited in my youth...

that my chronic clinical
major depression
is back.
that it hasn't left in ages,
and I'm fucking miserable...

that I'm drowning in my
teacher work.
that I willingly give in
to the dissocation
and working myself to the bone,
for the one fucking thing in my life
that brings me a sliver of joy.

that I've given up on dating
in my small town.
that my goal of moving to Melbourne
is a last ditch effort
to make human connections
and find a fucking reason to continue...

that I'm so
unbelievably desperate for a
fucking relationship that
validates me in my desperation
to be someone worthy of love...

that I’ve spent the entire
3 months
I've had to live back with my parents
dissociating
so I don't have to face my reality...

I hope that one day
I can tell my dad the truth.

fuck,
there's so much more that I could say.
except, now I'm crying,
alone in my room
having drank 2 bottles of moscato
alone.

my dad doesn't need to know
that I'm hurting so much.
I'm the eldest.
I've had my years of disgrace
battling my depression.
my dad has stressors at work,
and the least I can do is
not be a stressor in his house.
the least I can do is pretend
everything is okay,
when my reality is falling to
pieces
around me.

his concerned eyes trailed after me
as I retreated to my room,
but I pretended not to notice.
© O.M.A
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