Sunday Barbeque

July 24, 2004


At times like these the last thing I want to do is write, but I have to. I have no other choice, besides losing my mind, and I might do that anyway. So yeah, I have issues, probably need to seek therapy, but instead I sought out my best friend. In an insanely clear night brought on by tequila shots, I told her. Through sobbing and occasional vomiting, I told her. Now, a year later, we both must face the inevitable. I hope she can bite her tongue, I hope I can do the same. I plan on being drunk before our arrival. I never wanted this moment to occur, but I’ve never been able to say “no” to an old friend. She’s oblivious to my secrets, she just misses her friends. Gwen and I miss her too, but much has changed. I no longer lie. I am beyond the past and full of hate. I am scarred for the rest of my life but no longer alone. I feel used, certainly abused, and stupid for keeping it to myself for so long, but I am no longer alone, not as much as before anyway. But tomorrow is fast on its way, and I must mentally prepare, like that’s even possible, but I must try. It has been a year since I’ve last seen any of them, I don’t even fully understand why I’m going, or maybe I do and I just don’t want to admit it. Yeah, this is the perfect time to run out of drugs, but I’m dousing myself with alcohol and cigarettes, what else can I do? So yes, I’m full of hate and ready to come clean to the rest of the world, anonymously of course, an instant publication. Who would turn my passion and experience down? Getting off track, avoiding the real issue here. I was sexually abused for most of my youth by a close friend, a confidant, a loved one. An evil stepdad. There’s the point. What do I do with it?

Author: Lindsay Niemann

Writer | Graphic Artist