Blessed Blow

God had the best cocaine. Nothing was as clear as the contents of the transparent bags she carefully placed on the table every weekend. God wasn’t even twenty. She had long black hair and a round face. We called her God because she went to a Catholic boarding school for girls. Since God seemed to like me, I always got to snort for free. That made me feel like a freeloader, so I compensated by paying for her drinks at Bar 25. After a trip to visit her parents, God never returned to Berlin. Rumor had it she smashed a classmate’s head against a sink in the restroom, breaking it. We never heard from God again. That was also the end of my cocaine phase.

For a long time, I believed my drug abuse was responsible for my mood swings. But they persisted long after my last line and still hit me today. Mostly during moments when I was at peace with myself, when I felt grounded, when the world didn’t seem so bad. But the world was bad. It had conspired against me. There was no question in my mind that I was to blame for the misery I found myself in. It was someone else’s fault. Maybe I should have worked harder to convince people of my good intentions. Why had I even bothered to build up my hopes like a fragile house of cards, when it was obvious that the slightest breeze would knock it all down?

These thoughts always hit me hard. Like an enemy who knows me too well, always targeting my weakest points. Because that enemy is me. If I don’t want to listen, I have to feel. It’s my own fault. I might be able to set up mental safety nets that will catch me when these mood swings come for me again. A bag full of comforting thoughts that will protect me from spiraling into the abyss. Truths that still hold up when everything else crumbles into despair. And a solid, unshakable belief in my own value despite my mental struggles. As a person. As a friend. And as someone whose love for myself will one day overcome even my deepest fears.