Humid Nights and Bitter Rosè

I hate Rosè wine. I’m sitting outside on the balcony, smoking and attempting to drink it while contemplating my life.

I haven’t wanted to live for most of the year. It’s gotten so bad that my most consistent support system is ready to give up on me.

It’s disempowering being unemployed. It sucks sending out your CV and being met with “we’re sorry but you don’t meet the requirements for said position.”

I’m sitting out on the balcony of a North West townhouse (for lack of a better word), with a great man waiting for me in bed. I just can’t seem to find myself with him because I’m scared he might realise what a fraud I am.

I do this weird thing where I’m super cool but then go on to mother the men I date. Some take it in their stride (like my current partner) but even I know it gets annoying as fuck.

I took an Alcoholics Anonymous test the other day. According to it, I’m a full blown alcoholic. Alcoholism runs in my family. I’ve always shamed those members who struggled with it. I have an uncle who gets so wasted that he has to be lulled or manipulated to sleep.

The other thing my family ignores completely is how a lot of the men from my paternal side suffer from mental health issues. I had an uncle, my father’s older brother, who was homeless and suffered from mental health issues. I never knew him but whenever I discuss how he clearly was not well with my mother, she dismisses it. I’ve always marveled at my mom’s ability to accept my queerness but not my atheism or mental illness. To her, I have issues I can easily solve. My mother doesn’t know that most of the times, I want to kill myself because I feel like a burden to the family.

When I’m not worrying about my family, I’m being a boyfriend to an amazing man who sometimes doesn’t understand that it’s not ok to coddle exes, whatever their distance. With the emotional range of a teaspoon, my boyfriend struggles with knowing when to cut people off

It’s almost 1am. I should go to bed but the mosquitoes here have decided that I’m the go-to suckee. Doubt this is what the cool kids mean when they say one is a “snack”. Sleeping in the North West is an extreme sport. Baby always thanks me for protecting him from the ‘squitoes. Is it my AB blood type?

I’m just writing here for the sake of doing it.

Just the ramblings of a rosè hating fag about to go to bed because mosquitoes are feasting on him.

Good night.

I’ll do better next time.

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One thought on “Humid Nights and Bitter Rosè

  1. I’m really inspired by how you seem to battle yet triumph over your mental illness, and I sometimes find myself in awe of how much you fight to stau above it.

    Don’t lose sight of who you are babe, and let things happen.

    That man you have, talk to him, don’t be afraid to come across as vulrenable, open yourself up to possibilities

    Love you, to the moon and back

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