Saturdays

A poem describing how I like my weekends - slow.

I spent Saturday in my reality

Spent it in my sobriety

I spent it in the sun, looking at flowers

In a bright room, staring at the faces of strangers

I spent my Saturday napping, like a lazy cat on a hot day

I spent my Saturday without guilt or shame, feelings that were so familiar and felt like home,

I spent my Saturday talking to the woman who birthed me, telling her of how the world has dealt with me

I spent Saturday in my own skin

With no makeup on my face and no wigs on my head

I spent my Saturday dreaming and doing, and writing

And later today, I’ll gather with strangers who are becoming friends. And I’ll tell them of my misgivings and my flaws

I’ll show them my vulnerabilities and scars

And if I have failed at everything else, the weekdays will come around to remind me of that

But at least I’ll have spent my Saturdays being human.

I wrote this at a time when I was trying to be sober. I was smoking a lot at the time, and I had wild binge drinking episodes. I used liqueur to chase excitement, and then I would smoke weed to deal with the guilt. I still drink - but it’s a lot more controlled now. There’s nothing I’m running away from. Now, I drink to be tipsy and to giggle with my siblings. And I only smoke as an act of social cohesion. That sounds better than peer pressure, right? There’s no weed in my house. But there’s a chilled bottle of wine, but no corkscrew. I am a firm believer in spending at least one day of the week doing nothing. With no expectation of productivity. I think it’s vital to make time to just exist, especially when we live in a world that demands so much of us.

I hope you allow yourself to do this.

With love,

Your favourite almost doctor.