I don’t like Impact Kitchen. I’ve never felt comfortable in places like this. It feels like I’m in high school again eating my lunch hunched over in a bathroom stall. Pat the Bunny and Wingnut Dishwasher's Union ring in my ears as I cower over my laptop and suck my collagen infused protein smoothie through this damp paper straw. I chose this smoothie because it has dark chocolate and dates in it and I assumed it’d taste the most like ice cream. I added the collagen because I’m a white woman, and it’s what we do in my culture.
I don’t belong in spaces like this yet.
I feel at home at the bar. The dirtier, the darker, the dive-y-er, the easier it becomes to exhale. Surrounded by drunks, loudly decaying, spewing unprompted opinions, miserably occupying space as carelessly and as arrogantly as only the drunk can. Among them I blossom, often the youngest, eager to listen to their repetitive anecdotes, slurping the head off of a skunky lager, poured apathetically. I’m not as bad as them. I think, as I slam my thirteenth or fourteenth shot of whiskey down on the splintered, wooden bar. And over. And over.
And comfort.
For 359 days, I’ve been running from what’s comfortable. Self-destruction was comfortable during my active addiction, and if I stop doing the work, it’s right there waiting, like a silk duvet atop a mattress made of actual clouds and babies’ bottoms.
So instead of the bar, I’m at Impact Kitchen. Admiring the women with toned arms, gawking at the fact that Nike airforces are now considered high fashion. Drinking my vitamins; smacking my lips reflexively each time my lips brush my flaccid straw. Because I’m someone who takes care of herself now.
I’m learning how to take up space here. I may not be drunk anymore, but othering myself in public like this is evidence of my ego screeching at me. The world doesn’t revolve around you, Brooke.
Lot’s of work’s been done. Lot’s of work still to do. My sponsor will be here soon.
Progress, not perfection.
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