Self-Medicating with Consumption.
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I’m no stranger to the chaos of feeling empty.
I use food to stay tethered to this world. The saccharine sweetness of sugar sticks my shards together, and helps me hold on to pieces of myself when I fly apart even though they bite into my fingers and make me bleed; letting them go is scarier than the pain of staying the same.
I become milk-drunk on dairy, like an infant at its mother’s breast who seeks comfort in her nurturing nature, filling myself with heavy cream so that I don’t float away from this world and leave everything I’ve worked so hard for behind.
Like a shadow-dwelling specter, lonely in the quiet hours of the middle of the night, I bind myself to things in order to be seen as something living, something of this world, when really, I have transcended and am too afraid of the unknown to move on.
I smile, all teeth and trepidation, and I fawn over the latest in leather and buckles — garments that clothe my ever expanding and contracting physical form; textiles that cover my skin, my obsessive nature and my crippling anxiety. I go broke coveting things that go beep in the night, their blue-screen reality dulling my intuition and their micro-waves deadening the vastness of my creativity and knowledge.
I watch as others consume, like fire through a forest of ancient entities that kneel in its wake, dusting the ground of a ravaged earth that can only take so much… I can only take so much… so I take it all. I open my throat and inhale the carbs and the consumerism, the specks of expectation dotting my lungs and causing the Divine to shake its head and murmur, “This is terminal, she has Stage 4 consumption.”
So I self-medicate with macaroni and cheese, macaroons and dinner rolls. Stuffing and stuffing until the waves of wonder and mystery that roll across my frontal lobes deep into my subconscious are quieted, still like a stagnant lake sitting on the edge of a nuclear power plant. Sometimes it’s overwhelming to think so deeply, to feel so deeply, to hurt so deeply.
I have to quell that infinite knowing, the whispers in the night that tell me the truth of our ancient existence. I am a messenger, a conduit, and I do everything in my power to dull that electric charge. I am but mortal, who am I to be a divine messenger? Who am I to be a teacher of personal power? I gave mine to donuts.
Sometimes, when the fog of the feeding clears, I can feel it though — a completeness that I haven’t known since I tore into this world through the portal between my mother’s legs, when I still had stardust in the fine tendrils of my baby hair and milk had yet to touch my rosebud lips.
I can feel them, my sister-atoms’ laughing throats as they murmur secrets and giggle at the absurdity of it all, and in those still seconds I laugh too at all of the beautiful and ugly aspects of being manifested into a human flawed… I laugh a laugh that is purer than refined sugarcane.
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Brieanna Lewis is a self-proclaimed poet, tarot goddess, witchy woman, and small dog enthusiast. Hailing from a rural town in upstate New York, she spends her days writing, mastering social media, working at a local newspaper and raising two fur babies. Brieanna has embarked upon a journey to find her inner wild woman as well as to live her poetic truth.
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