> ## Content Index > Fetch the complete content index at: https://www.fsm.ink/llms.txt > Use this file to discover other available public pages before exploring further. # The Kitten in My Head - URL: https://www.fsm.ink/the-kitten-in-my-head/ - Published: 2025-06-30T21:00:49.000Z - Updated: 2026-06-03T17:54:29.000Z - Author: Gilliana Hope - Tags: Poetry, #Import 2026-08-03 09:59 by Gilliana Hope *I want to preface this by noting that this story does* *not involve underage drinking on my part in any* *capacity.* Last weekend, for the first time I didn’t feel the need to drink to have a good time. The kitten in my head—named “Anxiety”—used to think a Pink Whitney mixer was a bowl of milk, purring as a satisfied grin crossed her lips at the last few sips. I fed her because I wanted to be able to have fun, to just have fun. I’ve rarely attended a party or big event without being at least a drink or two in since I gained access to alcohol—whether buying it myself or through someone else. If not, my thoughts typically take a turn: I would worry about those around me I saw with dates and partners and wonder why the ache in my chest thumps with a green-shaded desire. Or, why the bigger groups of friends than mine I saw dancing or snapping pictures at the photo booths or selfies on their phones would make me feel oxymoronically grateful and frustrated at the couple of girls in the photos I unearthed in my gallery among the coming days. I cared deeply for my friends at the time—this has nothing to do with their quality and my appreciation of their presence. Still, I’d make a point to take individual pictures with each of them for a reason, as if some part of me knew they wouldn’t all be there forever. In the words of my favorite comedian’s therapist, “you might be a self-fulfilling prophecy.” And maybe I am, maybe that’s why I keep coming back to Taylor Tomlinson and her work as a mental counsel for my own life on occasion. Everyone leaves, eventually, and over time my hidden photo folder feels fuller than my main gallery—a twisted version of memory lane. If I wanted the kitten in my head to purr for a few hours—was that really so bad? For a legal twenty- something, I don’t think so. When I drink socially, though, I tend to treat my friends better than I treat myself. I’m not the kind of person who follows the golden rule when the roles are reversed. I’d walk them home if they were drunk, high, or both—even if, at the time, I couldn’t tell the difference between one of them smoking a blunt or a cigarette. I’d insist I was fine to walk home alone—it’s just across campus, after all—and I’d text them when I got back. And I did, but I wouldn’t text them when I occasionally “broke out” of my room later that night. Parties. Dances. Festivals. To fully experience them the way I thought I was supposed to, I accepted that I might end up spilling my in the middle of the night or verbally doing so to my mother. Still, she will say how much she misses my drunk phone calls with her right before I passed out for the night. No matter how fun those nights were, the question always crept in: Was my happiness in those settings tied to drinking? And when that question surfaced, a word in big, bold letters would flash in my mind like a neon sign: ALCOHOLIC. As the child of two addicts—each with their own battles—I’ve always been hyper-aware of my predisposition. I made myself a promise that nothing would ever go up my nose like it did my father’s. I swore I’d never date someone who used hard substances either. I don’t believe I’m an alcoholic. At one point, I would argue, “How could I be, if I’m not dependent on it regularly?” I’ve since learned that’s not an entirely sound reasoning. Still, drinking felt like a staple of the worlds I moved through. In college, but also in the music scene. I spend a lot of time in bars for gigs and drinking always felt like the easiest way to blend in, to stay just shy of harder vices. A raised cup and polite head shake work as a gentle way to brush someone off without needing to explain why I wasn’t doing anything more. Alcohol seemed like the softest solution. Originally, I thought I’d be writing this after my second time attending my school’s music festival soberly. But that’s not the case. Instead, I worked until bar close—thanks to the sea of students who rushed my workplace just as the last headliner wrapped up. The swarm of my already tipsy and borderline-drunk classmates crowded the bar, as eagerly and loudly as I’d seen the handful of times I’ve gone out to nightclubs. Of course, I wasn’t going to leave my coworker in that chaos. So, I stayed and made some money. I served drinks in my festival-ready outfit instead of watching a rapper whose name I barely remembered (I’m sure they were great). When I finally stepped out of the bar, into the quiet, I realized that I didn’t regret a thing. I knew that I would have made it through the festival fully sober if I’d gone and wanted to. But that answer ultimately didn’t feel important anymore. What mattered was: for the first time I can remember since my last relationship ended, I didn’t feel the urge to drink to have a good time. It isn’t a realization I expected to walk away from the weekend with, but it is one I hope to remind the kitten in my head of when she starts kneading at the edges of my skull once again. > Gilliana Hope is an avid believer in creative > expression as a vital tool for healing, having turned > to it throughout her entire life. With a synergy > between her identities as a songwriter, singer, and > writer, often she feels like a vessel for the words > she composes. The poetic and musical tales she > weaves come from a brutally personal place, for > better or worse. Her work can be found on social > media @[justgilliana](https://www.instagram.com/justgilliana/?hl=en&ref=fsm.ink)