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What. The F?

The Wine: Zero sugar Sauvignon Blanc (that’s a thing!)

The Winery: Pandemic Limits Withstanding, Dry Farm Wines Home Delivery

The W(H)ine: I Cannot Remember

I cannot remember the last time I hugged a toilet and unleashed my insides like I did at Amber’s house yesterday. What. The. F.

Never have I ever felt so confident in knowing I needed a ride home, and afraid the porcelain may not remedy what ailed, despite my many attempts to throw up everything inside into its hole. I. Suck.

My internal messaging since 5 am that same day, when I opened the six-paragraph long rant from who I thought was a long-timer, a true friend, a loyal braud, a soul tie, yin/yang connection. We forged and forgave decade-long narcissistic abuse alongside our colossal host of healers, including each other. We traversed coasts to manifest meaningful connection. We wrote radio script together, she the creative director, me the executive something. We. Loved. Each. Other.

What. The. F. F is for friend. What. The. F. What kind of a friend unloads their precalculated, overly mature, stanky candida onto the unsuspecting email of a two-decade-long-sister-friend?

The hard, sterile toilet seat granted my exploding head an immediate and necessary boundary, keeping my insides contained so as not to spill all over my other friend’s bathroom floor, which for the moment served as my altar, upon which my genuflecting self found steadiness, as I writhed around sloppily. How old am I? How many times have I faced rejection before?

Old, and many.

Yet this scathing betrayal, and passive-aggressive conclusion to a twenty year relationship landed poorly, precariously. What. The. F.

My instinct to seek quiet repose, to allow the newly spliced emotional wound to gape openly in the wind while the salve of sun, surrender, and soul-seeking served what I hope would be salvific and safe. But alas, alcohol beckoned. Grief paired with pinot. Tears with tannins. Whine with wine. Yet, I know better. But, what. the. F???? Focus. What ought to be the focus, Lisa? Could not see, straight or crooked. Lost by the blinding darkness of forsaken friendship. Lost. What. The. F.

When I gasped, and blissfully, found momentary breath in between spurts of gut-wrenching grossness, I looked up and locked my tear-soaked pupils on the circulating ceiling-fan. Who puts a ceiling fan in a bathroom, I ask? God bless them. Focus. Breathe in. Breathe out. Suck wind. Let it go.

I, the social worker, scratching the traumatized recesses of my exquisitely-trained mind for one tiny, immediate intervention that might save the moment for swallowing me whole. I. Need. Help. What. The. F.

Five things to see. Four things to hear. Three things to smell. Two things to touch. One thing to taste. Okay, then. Just like that, I started saving myself from myself.

I observed five fan blades, beveled mirror, shiny nickel, unopened soap and yellow creases in the laminate. I perceived an unrecognizable male voice booming in the kitchen, the intermittent ding of my cranked up cell phone, the voice of my therapist in my head encouraging my healing, and the toilet’s flush as my sick insides disappeared down the blessed drain. I suddenly smelt my fresh-ish breath free from all that disgustingness, a whisper of lavender soap to my left, and the aroma of nearby air freshener. Phew. Two things to touch: damn, I have never hugged anything harder than that porcelain pot; and simultaneously, fingered my phone feverishly, as if hanging onto life itself.

I tasted relief. That’s it. That’s what I remember.

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