Yesterday, I looked back at some old photos and did not recognize myself. The person I saw was a close approximation of my younger self, but not at all who I remember. I can recall certain events with a measure of clarity, and most of the characters are familiar; still, the echo in my head feels distorted and muffled. I am out of alignment and disconnected from my friends and fellows, even my family. Specific, vivid recollections feel twisted and tainted as if I am not fully assimilated into the simulation where everyone else is existing. My flashbacks do not match the shared reality I am being asked to participate in. I am out of sync. It is as if someone collected all of my memories and compiled them into an unreliable and incomplete narrative. The particulars are sleightly skewed and slightly sketchy. Without proper details, it all seems wrong. The inconsistencies are too glaring to ignore; they make me doubt myself. Why is no one else able to see it? Is anyone else going to say something? Are we all just going to pretend this is the way it is supposed to be? Or am I just crazy?
I am an observer of people. I try not to be creepy and keep it casual, but sometimes I cannot help myself. It was not my intention to be rude and stare, but I was fascinated by what I saw. There was a man, a little older than myself. He sat across the restaurant from me, looking relaxed with his lady friend. She laughed, and they talked.
They looked at the drink menu as if they did not already know what they wanted. Then, when they finally decided, they placed the menu on the table and continued to talk until the server came. There was little to no urgency. They were patient and did not beckon anyone to take their order right away. When the drinks came, they just kept talking, barely acknowledging the presence of the cocktails. But I noticed. I felt sorry for the neglected spirits.
I was unable to look away as I waited for one of them to make a move. After 2 minutes that seemed like twenty, the woman went first; she was still talking, and the man looked enthralled and attentive. She slid the glass closer to her and stirred the concoction with the provided swizzle stick. I unconsciously opened my mouth as if to mimic her taking the first sip, but it never came. She kept on talking. I wondered how they had so much to discuss.
Then without warning, the man picked up his mixed drink. I was happy the alcohol was getting some attention. I expected a giant gulp, but he smelled it instead. I was very confused. Had they come to drink, or what? When he finally touched the glass to his lips, he took one sip, just a taste. He set down the glass and looked satisfied. I glanced around wondering if anyone else was seeing this. I was on my third glass of water when the lady decided to try her drink. She had been waiting until her food came.
Neither ordered a second drink, even after the meal was gone. Once the check came, they got up to leave, and I could not help but notice his glass still about a quarter full. I am sure there was some swill and melted ice, but I also knew there was forgotten alcohol at the bottom, and he did not seem to care.
I walked past them outside, they were waiting for a ride share rather than drink and drive. They did not stagger out in search of more liquor. In fact, it looked as if they were calling it a night. I left perplexed at the choreography of it all. The booze was not the event, it was an accessory, a prop in the background of their night out. For them it was incidental, but for me alcohol had always been the main course.
The climb has made me too strong to consider turning back. I refuse to collapse back into that version of myself who would have settled for mediocrity. I will not negotiate with my past life. I have paid the cost of a new beginning and I will not forfiet the return on my investment. I did not survive the storm of self to stand on the shore and worship complacency. I did not come this far to just come this far. I came this far because I am committed to the journey. This life is not about arrival, it is about becoming.
When a drink touches my lips, it does not feel like a tingle; my mouth wakes up as if something has whispered its true name. My teeth never chatter; they snap together in a quick, involuntary Morse code, warning the rest of me that something is coming, and as always, it is already too late. The liquid spreads across my tongue, and it swells; not with pleasure but with a recognition that it has yearned for since birth. My warm cheeks flutter and fluster; thin membranes test the air and decide whether to stay attached to my face or peel away and take flight in escape. My eyes water; a passion typically reserved for long-lost friends or a forgotten mortal enemy. It is the strangest feeling of freedom I have known, considering how trapped I feel.
Quickly, it climbs, not down my throat, but up, threading itself through my sinuses like a scoundrel sneakily scaling a spiral staircase. My nostrils flare, and I can finally breathe right; no more chasing my next breath of air. I feel like what I have heard you call “normal.” By the time that familiar sensation reaches my forehead, the feeling is not wonderful; it is beautifully catastrophic, like the moment before a lightning strike chooses an unsuspecting target. And the wildest part? Not a drop of that enchanting elixir has even been swallowed. That first sip is still swirling in my mouth in anticipation of inevitable ingestion. The danger did not begin with drinking; the problem manifested as soon as I gave in to that insidious invitation once again.
The drink trespasses with a master key to every locked door in my being, as I try to recapture that elusive sensation that is both prophecy and pleasure.
I have stood in the wreckage of my own bad decisions. I was trapped inside a life I built around excuses and lies. Someone saw me and refused to leave me behind. Offering me a hand, they pulled me out of self-imposed squalor. Now, I have come back for you, unflinching. If you are ready, take my hand, and we will walk out of here together.
Nothing external was ever a factor. The futile attempts at disruption were barely static; background noise trying to interrupt a signal that it could never touch. The repeated strikes at our faith flailed, folding inward, unable to seed doubt or deter us from the plan. We resist without force: firm, resolved, steadfast. The Source allows us to defend ourselves with tact, discipline, and unshakable conviction. We cannot and will not be moved. Defeat is not a possibility. Protection is promised. Victory is assured. And so it is.
We cannot simultaneously be victims and empowered. Eventually, we must choose which state we want to exist in. Prolonged victimhood is not a circumstance; it is a posture. The stance may be rooted in real pain, real trauma, and real injustice, but if we are unable to move past victimhood, we will stay stuck. We must learn to step out of the victim role and seek to be empowered. Empowerment is not a denial of harm or a dismissal of what happened. It is a forward-facing decision to be responsible.
It is impossible to hold both at once.
Victimhood and empowerment are mutually exclusive operating systems. One cries, “I am forever defined by what was done to me,” while the other boldly asserts, “I am defined by what I do next!” We try to straddle the line to keep the excuse of victimhood and the dignity of empowerment, but eventually, our psyche forces us to choose. We either keep rehearsing the wound or we start rewriting the script.
When coincidence is exposed as deliberate, it is like a theory becoming truth. We postulate and predict until sufficient speculation becomes certainty. Coincidences are comfortable because they ask nothing of us. Conspiracies are uncomfortable because they demand recognition and investigation. Like most good thrillers, the plot is revealed when the author offers that final clue that has been held back since the first page of the story. We finally recognize the pattern, we connect the dots, and denial collapses. When there is an agreement, a secret, and a harmful or unlawful purpose, there is a conspiracy. The intention itself is the crime, long before the outcome. Coincidence is used as the initial alibi, but the conspiracy is the true motive.
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