The bottle wasn't enough. Since absorbing part of Logan three weeks ago, the bottle had not been enough. Meaning for the last 3 weeks, she had been stuck facing her feelings, her darkness. Sleeping just brought on the nightmares she had also received…she was, to make it short and not so sweet, screwed.
It was bad enough that she felt like hell on a regular basis, but she usually had an escape. A way to get away from herself, from the damn voices in her head. Ironically enough, it was her own voice that fucked her up the most. The voice that chastised her for every little thing. That repeatedly pointed out her flaws, her past mistakes. The voice that pointed out all of the sharp objects around her, encouraging her to cut, retreating only for a minute when she fought it and chose not to, then came back with a vengeance the next day, hell sometimes, the next hour. She wasn't an alcoholic, even if she wasn't able to control her drinking, the inner voice in her head was too controlling to let it get that far. Drinking just gave her a push. It helped her put on the happy Rogue face everyone wanted. Helped quiet the voice, just a little, so that she could actually be in the moment for just a split minute without this suffocating feeling of self hatred.
But ever since that damn training exercise, she had lost her coping skill. She cussed Scooter every damn day for making her try to control her powers on Logan of all people. Granted he was fine and most people wouldn't be after a touch from her, but it was fucking with her already fragile sanity and that just wasn't fair.
She
sat with her knees drawn up in the dark, her back against the corner
as she practiced the breathing exercises the Professor had drilled
into her head. They didn't work. They never worked, but she
continued trying in the hopes that one day, her inner voice of self
hate would just shut the fuck up.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Nothing was
working. Not that she should be surprised. Typically the only thing
that did work was alcohol.