I’m Hours, and I’m an alcoholic.
It’s a shame to start out this way. I wish it could be ‘My name is Hours and when you meet me I am 24 years old and dancing precariously on the hard, thick snow of a Prague winter’- Or, ‘When you meet me I am 17 years old throwing my body around to Girls Not Grey’ on the stickiest pub floor in Weymouth’. I am 16 and losing my virginity to a mohawked punk peace activist called Gordon on the my bedroom carpet. I am 22 and sleeping on the floor of a famous Irish poet. Almost any other time but this one.
When I was a little girl, I was the kind of child who wanted to climb trees in my princess dress. I wanted to be a mermaid as much as the next Disney-addled child of the 80’s and spent ages one day making a tail out of green tissue paper. I loved thunderstorms and history classes and stories about magic and witches. I hated maths and geography and watches. I refused to learn how to tell the time before the age of thirteen, because in my silent, solitary land of make-believe time was irrelevant and still is. I imagined that I would grow up to be someone who could speak all languages and travelling the world as an archeologist – working on desert digs and uncovering lost Egyptian cities; unearthing a giant head of Hathor or Sekhmet, a gigantic carved queen peering out of the dust.
I wandered these imaginary landscapes in my white flannel dress embroidered with little flowers. Now I wear ripped jeans and bargain shirts from mall sales, still gazing around like that little girl, starstruck, fragile, and prone to violent escapism. The name of this blog is The Hours God Sends; I understand Time a bit better now, I learned what it meant in the treatment centre. Salient facts: they tell me I have Impulsive Borderline Personality Disorder, I also have a thing about applewood smoked cheese, I diagnosed that one myself.
So that’s the beginning. Here I am, trying to write my way back to the wild water. Finding recovery. Seeking grace in a crown of salt.