Swallow
On first book blues and Pink's "Just Like a Pill"
For depressed, misunderstood girls like me, Pink was kind of the voice of a generation.
Not to sound trite, but listening to her music, kid me was like, “oh okay, she gets it.” Bad parents, growing up poor, difficulty making friends, whatever ailed me, Pink’s songs were the solution.
When I was writing one of the poems in my book where I talk about my drug and alcohol addiction, “Just Like a Pill” popped into my head.
Where I can run just as fast as I can
To the middle of nowhere
To the middle of my frustrated fears
And I swear you're just like a pill
'Stead of makin' me better
You keep makin' me ill
You keep makin' me ill
This song is clearly one big metaphor about a person, a circumstance, etc. But for an addict like me, it’s less metaphor and more affected reality. I loved pills. Xanax, especially. I wanted nothing more than to mix and match. Until I felt dead, physically and emotionally.
My first book is out in less than 3 months, 2 months and 10 days to be exact, and I’m so excited, and also a little depressed. Depressed because I keep falling into the habit of comparison.
You’re 33 and this is your first book. Everyone else you know has like two books now!
I can't stay on your life support
There's a shortage in the switch
I can't stay on your morphine
'Cause it's making me itch
I said I tried to call the nurse again
But she's bein' a little bitch
I think I'll get outta here
I’m the little bitch nurse and the pill is comparison, not making me better but making me more ornery and lonely. At the end of the day it doesn’t matter that I’m approaching my mid-thirties and just got my first book. Putting an age on an accomplishment is silly and inane.
Part of being a sober addict now is being in constant conversation with my shortcomings. I know I need to work on my penchant for professional jealousy. I know I sometimes, despite my best attempts, still miss getting high and absolving myself of all worldly responsibility.
The antidote for that sort of wallowing is easy for me to reach now: a walk in the sun, meditation, a good meal, cold water, a talk with a friend, prayer, dancing, so many things at my disposal.
In the poem I referenced earlier, that little pill becomes something bigger, something catastrophic and terrible. I’m far from that world now but not so far that I can forget. I’m not a monster or a bad guy or a failure, I’m a traumatized person who wanted anything but to face that trauma so I got addicted to a good time, to a feel good, a temporary high.
Fear is kinda the thing, isn’t it? Living in fear of being hurt again or facing the hurt you’ve been through can ruin you. Take it from me. I listen to this song over and over and remember me at 9, 10. 11, drinking, hiding my usage, wanting someone to notice how goddamn hurt I was.
She has no idea, but Pink saw me, and scream singing this song while playing it on my red walkman saved me. I would grow up, get sober, and get my first book. Not a fairytale by any means but a pretty damn good story.