I have not written in a while. I have been too depressed to leave my room. Walking down the hall toward civilization has gradually become more painful. Isolation breeds depression. It is easier to stay in bed and watch Netflix than it is to actually sit upright and read or write. I feel guilty when I cannot write. Because that’s what I love doing. Depression has stolen what I love. I know if I just begin writing, the words will eventually flow. But that has become more a distant ideation than an action.
Last week, I was going to begin on a story for you. I noticed my hands shaking and my body sweating. Alcohol withdrawal. It took 2 beers to to bring me back to my normal state. I did not have the energy to write. I could blame it on not having a desk or a writing space, but that’s possibly an excuse. Sometimes the process seems huge and it should not be. So, I decided to lay in bed with my notepad and take notes on how I felt, jot down any intriguing thoughts. My yellow legal pad I keep next me is filled with illegible hope and reflection. It’s challenging to scribble as fast as I think.
I went therapy the next day. I cried. A little. Something I rarely do in therapy. I fight the tears. I know if I let out one big breath as a tear rolls down my cheek, I’ll end up bawling on the floor convulsing in a puddle of tears. When I got home, I cried for real. I am becoming conscious of so much. My therapist and I cover a lot of areas. We touch on many subjects ,though just skimming the surface thus far. And I leave feeling overwhelmed. Still in tears I ran to the kitchen. I drank 6 beers rather quickly. I needed to shove that pain back down. Then, I had 2 Margaritas.
I am an alcoholic. I have known this for years. I need to stop drinking and using so I can feel, really and truly understand what’s happening to me now, and how it’s tied to what happened to me before. One would think the sweats and shakes would deter me from drinking. Ironic. Fix it, but fuck it… The addiction always over powers the rational thought. Always. No exceptions.
Is my need for self medication more than my need for sanity and health? Do I not respect authority enough to abstain from harming myself? Apparently, I don’t respect myself enough. I need to feel pain. I do feel pain. I am not sure that is an intact statement, because I have failed to allow myself the experience of wrestling with my pain, letting it resonate, and eventually walking away from it a changed woman. I squirm at the thought of pain. I immediately reach for alcohol, pills, drugs, some form of self soothe.
After therapy, even in tears, I feel great. Because I still feel as though I am in the room with him. But the farther I drive, the panic sets in of being alone with myself. Despite that in my session, I learned something about myself, my past, my present, my future… despite being told I am brilliant, that I am survivor, that I am strong, I cannot accept it. Rather than soak in the truth, I run from it. It’s uncomfortable. I need to drink. I cannot sit in my own affliction. Though, that is my goal.
Not only did I reach for a drink, when I stopped to put gas in the car after therapy, I opened the trunk and took two beers from the 12 pack I bought the night before while drunk. I put them in the front with me. I planned on drinking them at home. I wrapped the bottles up in two plastic bags and carefully placed them in one bag side by side so they would not clank together as I entered the house. This is classic addict behavior. I could not let my house guests know I drank beer for lunch. I drove less than a mile before opening one of the beers. I knew the consequences if I were to get caught, but only pondered them for a few moments before giving in to my selfish addict. Honestly, it feels like medication and I am overdue for my dose. It’s an urge I can’t resist. I could have been pulled over. Where would I put the bottle? And my breath? Before I approached home, I pulled to the side of the road onto a gravel lot in front of a church. It’s a Samoan church, so it does not count. Just kidding. I find it sadly ironic that I chose a church to calculate my alcoholic manipulation.
I drank the second beer. I pulled the lever to access the trunk. I exchanged the two empty bottles for two unopened bottles, wrapping them carefully in the same manner as I did the back at the gas station. I made it home, past my housemates, and down the hall to my room with no clanking. I sat perched in my usual spot on my bed. I turn on the TV and drank until I could not feel the pain. Only guilt. I hope I can stop this on my own. Like I said, my goal is to be comfortable in my pain so I can deal with myself.
Why is it that Heath Ledger can die from a pill and alcohol stupor and I can’t? I risk it all the time. I pop more Valium, Vicodin, and alcohol than most could handle. I should have been dead a long time ago. Statistically, I should not be here. I need to wake up figuratively or one day I won’t wake up literally. The pain is so much that often I want to do die. Self destructing is a great way to punish myself for everything I have done and feel guilty about. I’ll save that for another day.