Think Like CJ

Writing Without Lines

recent posts

About My Blog

I’m CJ. I write about discipline, endurance, grief, and becoming who you are through repetition, not perfection.

  • The Last Drive

    There’s no easy way to explain how or why I stopped drinking. I’ve been asked before, and I still don’t have a clean answer. What I do have is a memory—a moment that split my life into “before” and “after.” This is part of that.

    I don’t drink and drive anymore.
    I don’t drink.

    One of the last times I drove myself home drunk, I was leaving a friend’s house.
    We were drinking water mixed with Hawaiian Punch flavor packets.
    First, drink down a third of the water, or dump it.
    Then pour in the powder, shake it good, and top it off with vodka. Tito’s, most nights.

    I was halfway through my third 16.9-ounce drink when I decided it was time to go.
    I should have stopped after one.

    Pulling into my driveway, I coasted into the garage, dragging the right side of my car along the edge.
    A perfect trail of drunk driving etched into Bad Brenda, the car I’d driven drunk in for the last three years.

    On the anniversary of buying Bad Brenda, I posted a Facebook status celebrating all the good times we’d had and the adventures we’d gone on together.
    Unbeknownst to my audience, most of those memories were buzzed, if not blacked out.

    Most nights ended the same way: me persuading someone that I was okay to drive.
    Uncertainty hiding behind confident answers, spilling out as reassurance to friends and family.
    Their trust burning through my retinas.
    Lights blending in real time.
    Forgotten goodbyes.
    Memories disintegrating into the archival grounds of drunk nights.

    I’d wake up to Bad Brenda still running.
    My seat pushed all the way back.
    My body deadweight.
    Blacked out.
    Washed away from reality.
    At 5 a.m., I’d drag myself inside, head straight to the toilet, and spew the leftovers from the night before.

    And still, the shenanigans didn’t stop.

  • Forever Me

    Daily writing prompt
    If you were forced to wear one outfit over and over again, what would it be?
    View all responses

    Authenticity—
    a deep-rooted stem forcing its way out,
    cracking through surface lies,
    corroding the outside world’s perception.
    A unique stamp.
    Signed, sealed, and delivered.

    For years, I wrestled with the word.
    I claimed authenticity
    while performing an edited version of myself.
    But my true self—
    dogmas erased,
    stigmas disintegrated into dust—
    emerged, little by little.

    Recognition began to cease.
    Not everyone knows what to do with someone
    who finally stops pretending.

    But I stood—
    confident like the wind
    spinning the arms of a northern windmill
    miles from my office window.

    Autentik.
    Excruciatingly bold.
    Authoritative in a way
    only soul reflection can permit.
    Boundaries carved not from bitterness,
    but from truth.

    Authenticity is not a fixed trait.
    It’s built. Broken. Rebuilt.
    Unfiltered.

    And if I had to wear one outfit forever,
    I would still choose me.

  • Part I: Eight Years Old

    This is an excerpt from my memoir-in-progress. I’m sharing it here to offer a glimpse into one night from my childhood that changed everything. Thank you for reading.

    (Trigger warning: domestic violence)

    The road ahead of us was a strip of darkness, narrowing to nothing as we barreled down the center lane. Mom’s hand tightened around my ankle, her grip a lifeline in the chaos. Dad suddenly announced he had to pee, slamming the van into park, and jumping out of the van before I could process what was happening. His footsteps crunched against the gravel like gunshots. Before he could circle the front of the van, Mom threw open the passenger door and bolted, her heels clacking against the pavement. I watched, helpless, as she stumbled and fell, her body shrinking in the distance.

    “Mommy!” I screamed, but the van was already lurching forward, leaving her behind in the darkness.

    But before Dad and I reached that dark stretch of road, before Mom ran for her life and I was left screaming in the back of the van, the evening had started like so many others…

    Mom was so happy to see me in a dress that evening. It was probably only the fifth dress I’d worn up to that point. She would dress me up in one every year on the last day of school during elementary school. I still remember the one from kindergarten, a bright yellow dress with ruffles swarming the bottom, the perfect taste of spring. Dresses stopped after elementary when Mom finally surrendered to my constant pouting every time she mentioned putting me in one.

    “Here’s some lip gloss. It’s strawberry flavor,” Mom said, opening the palm of her hand, expecting me to race to get it.

    “Thanks mom,” I said, even though I hated to wear lip gloss. I already knew I would probably hide it in the car on the way to the wedding.

    If this piece moved you or you’d like to read more chapters as I release them, feel free to follow or leave a comment. This memoir is a work in progress — thank you for being here.

  • Self Care

    Daily writing prompt
    How do you practice self-care?
    View all responses

    It’s a beautiful morning. The sun gleams down, golden and soft, while the grass sways gently in the breeze like it’s breathing. The air smells of freshly cut grass—earthy, light—with a whisper of warmth tracing my skin.

    Inside, coffee brews. Its scent winds through the house, rich with notes of caramel, chocolate, and roasted nuts. The air is cold and brisk, but inviting. My favorite mug waits on the counter: World’s Best Teacher, bold and proud, wrapped in a rainbow of colored pencils. It’s oversized—because it’s double the coffee or nothing.

    I settle at my desk, pull the blinds open, and let the light flood in. Laptop open. Blank page staring back. Fingers ready to tap. A fresh space, waiting for words to find their way.

    Self-care in the solace of all things untouched on a busy day. The love-locked pages left unread. The blank ones, still spotless—like a canvas.

    Tranquility, presenting itself in the form of time.
    Peace.