My disease wants me identify with thought, write with proper diction, connect thoughts with logic, compare and contrast, bring hierarchy into order.

My soul wants me to live from the heart. At one point about ten years ago, my heart was battered and bruised and short of breath. I shut it down. Locked it up in safety and threw away the key. The last ten years have been arduous.

I never believed I could become someone who has given up, but that’s just what I did. It’s been two years since I had a choice: end it all or reach out for help. I thought of my nieces and nephews and choose door number two.

I’ve done all the right things to heal my brain. Stopped drinking. Got help. Found a program of recovery. A peer group.

But my heart is still buried, locked away in a place without light.

Recently, a friend challenged me to write a short story. I’m now giving myself a crash course on how to write fiction. I did a writing workshop about twelve years ago, so I’m not a complete beginner. I had an idea for a story, but I think it demands too much of my intellect.

I want to write a story from the heart, but I’m not even sure what that means. I would consult my heart, but it’s in solitary confinement. Yet, I know that if I make an effort to write from the heart, that is how I will liberate my heart from its prison.

I need to find my poetic voice; I want to be irrational.

I want to scream into the abyss.