I'm giving this piece of shit blog a break because I'm knocked up and plan to chronicle random shit about said knockedupness elsewhere. If you give a shit or are bored:
www.knockedupvylette.blogspot.com
36 weeks to go.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Epistles: Chapter 4
Dear J,
If someone were to ask me to describe my time with you using three colorful, thoughtful adjectives, I'd choose the following:
turbulent, intoxicating, delusional
The absurdities, or unfortunate shit, seems easiest to recall: the episode in Hardtimes when you punched some guy for looking at you sideways and he pushed back causing you to fall over a table, break said table, and you received some message from the bouncer to the effect of "kicked out until further notice," (bummer for you - that was the best bar in town at the time); the night I phoned you up after not having seen you for months only to learn that you were on house arrest for a third DUI, but could I please bring you some vodka in a plastic bottle?; the night I fell asleep in your bed with a lit cigarette, burning holes through two blankets, my pants, and leaving a smudgy scar on my thigh; the night you got into a drunken brawl with Mark and your refrigerator somehow got turned on its side while I chain-smoked in a comatose drunken state completely incapable of telling you losers to stop punching each other.
I could go on and on and on.
So what the hell was it with you?
You'd think I could have read the painfully obvious warning sign of having first noticed you in the liquor store. Then, later that same night, I bumped into you at a bar, introduced myself, and as the drunken fates would have it, for months from that moment on on we were inseparable.
I made excuses for you and your alcoholism constantly. Of course you drank every night - you worked in a bar for chrissake! I was supposed to meet you at 8 and you weren't there? Well, that's easy -- you got held up at school! Or work! Or, or, or. . . And, the classic cliché: sure, people go to school for seven years! Doctors! Or, in your case, painfully brilliant but alcoholically disabled psychology majors, as well.
You were potential personified, at least professionally and academically. Top grad schools wanted you. You could have done anything. You were something ridiculous like four credits away from your degree and a full scholarship to Berkeley. You chose to drink.
Jesus, this is more about me than you. . . what is it about me and drunks? Did I think I could change you? Possibly. Did I want to? Possibly. Was I completely consumed by you? Absofuckinglutely.
Shrinks have called me an anxious ruminator -- a dweller of things past -- and that's certainly true. I think about you and our "relationship" even now because it made my head spin. It was borderline violent, but exciting. Being with you was never dull. We'd drink ourselves silly and listen to the Rolling Stones. We spoke in hurried, excited breaths of epiphany and proclaimed that our love was surely written in the stars! And the sex we had was the most satisfying, most exhilarating, most amazing joining of bodies and souls that even my wickedest imagination could not have conjured.
Then there were the black times. You went to jail. Again. You drank and you drank and you wouldn't wake up and I couldn't find you. You stopped showing up for work. Your boss couldn't find you. I lurked around your apartment in the deep night and snuck in behind someone who had a key and sat outside our door praying in my own way that you weren't dead in there. I was terrified.
Sometimes when you drank, you were ecstatic, euphoric, sweet, and kind. Other times you turned into a monster. I never figured out where the line was or when your disposition would shockingly shift to the latter. I convinced myself that you never would have said the terrible things you said to me in your drunken frenzies had you just stopped drinking earlier in the evening. You wouldn't have full-force launched me against the back bumper of a truck in a rage telling me that it wasn't my fucking job to fucking save you -- that I should let you go, let you die, let you crumble, because it was too late for you. You didn't deserve me. You'd cry. You were certain I'd leave you so you beat me to it three, four times. You groveled. You were pathetic. And then you were gone. To Colorado? I don't know. You left me for the final time and I was spent.
Therapy taught me what alcoholism was all about. Every book on the subject that I read echoed your name and the years we spent together. Loving a drunk is a terrifying thing.
I must have been a fucking masochist. To endure all those months of nightmares only to be rejected repeatedly.
I think we had three separate relationships. The first time lasting for about six months where it seemed likely that we could make a lifetime go of it. And then you chose booze over me for the first time. It controlled your life. You disappeared. Life went on.
The second go-round was devilish. We both drank dangerously. We lived dangerously. We risked so much of our lives for the sake of booze and pot (in your case) and I was truly lucky to get out when I did -- or for you to kick me to the curb yet again -- when you did. It killed me. But it didn't keep me from calling you again about a year later just "to see how you were." What a crock of shit. I wanted back in. I was truly a rejection junkie.
You welcomed me back yet again with crazy enthusiasm. In a matter of minutes you were at my door, your hands in my hair, around my waist, pushing me toward my bedroom. Our love was yet again renewed and with a pure feeling of freshness I think we both felt strongly about. We vowed never to put each other through the dismal hells of our past and we were going to be good. We were going to continue to drink, but we'd drink responsibly. Meaning, that we wouldn't drink on school nights and on the weekends we wouldn't drink til we passed out. That worked for about a month.
I wasn't as far gone as you, obviously. I knew when to stop before a killer hangover would set in the following day. I never missed work, or a due date for graduate exams and essays, or doctor's appointments or anything, really. I never chose to drink over anything of true import. It was the exact opposite for you.
I know now about alcoholics and delusions of grandeur. I'll never again have to read Codependent No More and I'm pretty embarrassed to admit that I read it in the first place. Our relationship was textbook. The alcoholic and the enabler. The addiction and the denial.
Looking back, which has been the through point of this whole year for me, I realize how truly fortunate it is that I got out when I did. I shudder to think of how miserable my life would be at this point if we were still together and, honestly, I think you're determined to drink yourself dead.
You tried to return my ring and the books of poems, but I wouldn't have it. It's sad to have to wonder, but I hope you're still out there.
If someone were to ask me to describe my time with you using three colorful, thoughtful adjectives, I'd choose the following:
turbulent, intoxicating, delusional
The absurdities, or unfortunate shit, seems easiest to recall: the episode in Hardtimes when you punched some guy for looking at you sideways and he pushed back causing you to fall over a table, break said table, and you received some message from the bouncer to the effect of "kicked out until further notice," (bummer for you - that was the best bar in town at the time); the night I phoned you up after not having seen you for months only to learn that you were on house arrest for a third DUI, but could I please bring you some vodka in a plastic bottle?; the night I fell asleep in your bed with a lit cigarette, burning holes through two blankets, my pants, and leaving a smudgy scar on my thigh; the night you got into a drunken brawl with Mark and your refrigerator somehow got turned on its side while I chain-smoked in a comatose drunken state completely incapable of telling you losers to stop punching each other.
I could go on and on and on.
So what the hell was it with you?
You'd think I could have read the painfully obvious warning sign of having first noticed you in the liquor store. Then, later that same night, I bumped into you at a bar, introduced myself, and as the drunken fates would have it, for months from that moment on on we were inseparable.
I made excuses for you and your alcoholism constantly. Of course you drank every night - you worked in a bar for chrissake! I was supposed to meet you at 8 and you weren't there? Well, that's easy -- you got held up at school! Or work! Or, or, or. . . And, the classic cliché: sure, people go to school for seven years! Doctors! Or, in your case, painfully brilliant but alcoholically disabled psychology majors, as well.
You were potential personified, at least professionally and academically. Top grad schools wanted you. You could have done anything. You were something ridiculous like four credits away from your degree and a full scholarship to Berkeley. You chose to drink.
Jesus, this is more about me than you. . . what is it about me and drunks? Did I think I could change you? Possibly. Did I want to? Possibly. Was I completely consumed by you? Absofuckinglutely.
Shrinks have called me an anxious ruminator -- a dweller of things past -- and that's certainly true. I think about you and our "relationship" even now because it made my head spin. It was borderline violent, but exciting. Being with you was never dull. We'd drink ourselves silly and listen to the Rolling Stones. We spoke in hurried, excited breaths of epiphany and proclaimed that our love was surely written in the stars! And the sex we had was the most satisfying, most exhilarating, most amazing joining of bodies and souls that even my wickedest imagination could not have conjured.
Then there were the black times. You went to jail. Again. You drank and you drank and you wouldn't wake up and I couldn't find you. You stopped showing up for work. Your boss couldn't find you. I lurked around your apartment in the deep night and snuck in behind someone who had a key and sat outside our door praying in my own way that you weren't dead in there. I was terrified.
Sometimes when you drank, you were ecstatic, euphoric, sweet, and kind. Other times you turned into a monster. I never figured out where the line was or when your disposition would shockingly shift to the latter. I convinced myself that you never would have said the terrible things you said to me in your drunken frenzies had you just stopped drinking earlier in the evening. You wouldn't have full-force launched me against the back bumper of a truck in a rage telling me that it wasn't my fucking job to fucking save you -- that I should let you go, let you die, let you crumble, because it was too late for you. You didn't deserve me. You'd cry. You were certain I'd leave you so you beat me to it three, four times. You groveled. You were pathetic. And then you were gone. To Colorado? I don't know. You left me for the final time and I was spent.
Therapy taught me what alcoholism was all about. Every book on the subject that I read echoed your name and the years we spent together. Loving a drunk is a terrifying thing.
I must have been a fucking masochist. To endure all those months of nightmares only to be rejected repeatedly.
I think we had three separate relationships. The first time lasting for about six months where it seemed likely that we could make a lifetime go of it. And then you chose booze over me for the first time. It controlled your life. You disappeared. Life went on.
The second go-round was devilish. We both drank dangerously. We lived dangerously. We risked so much of our lives for the sake of booze and pot (in your case) and I was truly lucky to get out when I did -- or for you to kick me to the curb yet again -- when you did. It killed me. But it didn't keep me from calling you again about a year later just "to see how you were." What a crock of shit. I wanted back in. I was truly a rejection junkie.
You welcomed me back yet again with crazy enthusiasm. In a matter of minutes you were at my door, your hands in my hair, around my waist, pushing me toward my bedroom. Our love was yet again renewed and with a pure feeling of freshness I think we both felt strongly about. We vowed never to put each other through the dismal hells of our past and we were going to be good. We were going to continue to drink, but we'd drink responsibly. Meaning, that we wouldn't drink on school nights and on the weekends we wouldn't drink til we passed out. That worked for about a month.
I wasn't as far gone as you, obviously. I knew when to stop before a killer hangover would set in the following day. I never missed work, or a due date for graduate exams and essays, or doctor's appointments or anything, really. I never chose to drink over anything of true import. It was the exact opposite for you.
I know now about alcoholics and delusions of grandeur. I'll never again have to read Codependent No More and I'm pretty embarrassed to admit that I read it in the first place. Our relationship was textbook. The alcoholic and the enabler. The addiction and the denial.
Looking back, which has been the through point of this whole year for me, I realize how truly fortunate it is that I got out when I did. I shudder to think of how miserable my life would be at this point if we were still together and, honestly, I think you're determined to drink yourself dead.
You tried to return my ring and the books of poems, but I wouldn't have it. It's sad to have to wonder, but I hope you're still out there.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Eavesdropping
I like to read. I like to drink. I was at a bar last week and overheard a heavily-tattooed but strangely handsome dude declare the following statement with gusto:
"I only read when I'm in jail."
Hardy har har har.
Cheers!
"I only read when I'm in jail."
Hardy har har har.
Cheers!
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Subconscious
For three nights this past week I've had strange, vivid dreams about James. My lost friend James, not my husband James. I haven't seen friend-James in six years but I think about him everyday. No one that I know, his family included, has any idea of his whereabouts. I miss him everyday.
The dreams I have about him are borderline violent. Last night's took place in a rainy graveyard and included a game of kiss or kill. Strange to say the least.
The dreams I have about him are borderline violent. Last night's took place in a rainy graveyard and included a game of kiss or kill. Strange to say the least.
Side Effects
I am currently taking 300mg/day of Wellbutrin XL. I've been on worse meds, that's for sure.
What I've experienced in the past 10 days:
1. Inability to keep still.
I am constantly moving in some way. This must be what restless leg syndrome feels like. Maybe that means I'm burning more calories and therefore will lose more weight. One can hope.
2. Inability to stand up without feeling like I will immediately collapse.
This must be what vertigo feels like. I am seriously convinced that upon standing quickly, I will even more quickly fall face-first to the floor.
3. Ability to remember several tasks at once.
I haven't been this productive since the Nixon era. In many ways, this is what mania feels like. However, I am not prone to any self-destructive behavior thus far such as overindulging in alcohol, sex, and spending. Those things come with actual mania.
4. Ability to remain energized for the whole day and often into the late night.
Maybe this is symptomatic of the depression lifting, but I am in an incredibly better mood than I was three weeks ago and my energy level is surprising.
5. Inability to believe I've gone so long without medication.
I can't believe I'm saying this. I should have been popping pills every day for the past four years. To think of what I've lost or missed out on while resisting drug therapy blows my mind.
No day but today.
What I've experienced in the past 10 days:
1. Inability to keep still.
I am constantly moving in some way. This must be what restless leg syndrome feels like. Maybe that means I'm burning more calories and therefore will lose more weight. One can hope.
2. Inability to stand up without feeling like I will immediately collapse.
This must be what vertigo feels like. I am seriously convinced that upon standing quickly, I will even more quickly fall face-first to the floor.
3. Ability to remember several tasks at once.
I haven't been this productive since the Nixon era. In many ways, this is what mania feels like. However, I am not prone to any self-destructive behavior thus far such as overindulging in alcohol, sex, and spending. Those things come with actual mania.
4. Ability to remain energized for the whole day and often into the late night.
Maybe this is symptomatic of the depression lifting, but I am in an incredibly better mood than I was three weeks ago and my energy level is surprising.
5. Inability to believe I've gone so long without medication.
I can't believe I'm saying this. I should have been popping pills every day for the past four years. To think of what I've lost or missed out on while resisting drug therapy blows my mind.
No day but today.
Friday, April 24, 2009
Twitch
Holy fuck.
I am in a hotel room in Minneapolis. I haven't slept well all week. I should be exhausted to the point of being immediately knocked the fuck out once my head hit the pillow. But no!
Fuck these fucking meds.
I just started another scrip for my lingering manic depression. I won't get all looped up in the details on this fucking blog, but the proverbial shit hit the proverbial fan and I realized that if I didn't get some serious help everything that matters to me might dissipate.
So this afternoon I stared for twenty minutes at a bottle of Wellbutrin. I recalled all the other failed attempts and pharmaceutical test drives that I had taken over the past fifteen years. I've been off meds now for nearly four years, but I have never needed them more badly than right the fuck now.
My life until this point for the past seven months has been spiraling out of control: bad decisions upon bad decisions, destructive missions that compelled me to be just plain bad, and turmoil and pain spread to all the people close to me. It is time to fucking stop. Just stop.
I am married to the most patient and kind and forgiving man in the entire world. To realize how I've jeopardized my relationship with him hurts me more profoundly than anything I've endured so far in life. But he's still here -- ready to help me any way he can -- to hold my hair when I vomit from the nausea this new drug causes, to try to hold still me while I convulse violently as I sob and sob and sob from all this pain, to listen as I explain however painfully and inadequately how this mental illness deteriorates my thought process and decision making and basically melts any echo of voice of reason.
I sound like a fucking lunatic.
So, I stared at the pill bottle. I slowly twisted the red cap off. I tapped some pills out onto the counter. I cut four pills in half. I stared at them on the counter. Some pill dust scattered about, but for the most part I cut them cleanly enough. I put all halves but one in a ziplock baggie. I launched the remaining pill half to the back of my throat and chased it down with some stale, cold coffee.
And now, eight hours later, I can't stop wiggling about in this enormous bed. My husband is snoring quietly at my side, but my legs and toes are restless and my thoughts are racing and I realize that I should have taken my stupid drugs early in the morning instead of late afternoon. I could seriously go for a run right now.
I feel painfully manic. If I were home right now, I'd be retrimming the windows in my entryway and possibly baking a souffle and maybe even balancing the budget or solving all sorts of economic crises all at the same time. I have so much energy it isn't even funny. This energy will come in handy tomorrow when I chase my adorable kid all about uptown Minneapolis.
So here's hoping.
I'm going clean. No alcohol, no cigarettes, no distractions.
I am in a hotel room in Minneapolis. I haven't slept well all week. I should be exhausted to the point of being immediately knocked the fuck out once my head hit the pillow. But no!
Fuck these fucking meds.
I just started another scrip for my lingering manic depression. I won't get all looped up in the details on this fucking blog, but the proverbial shit hit the proverbial fan and I realized that if I didn't get some serious help everything that matters to me might dissipate.
So this afternoon I stared for twenty minutes at a bottle of Wellbutrin. I recalled all the other failed attempts and pharmaceutical test drives that I had taken over the past fifteen years. I've been off meds now for nearly four years, but I have never needed them more badly than right the fuck now.
My life until this point for the past seven months has been spiraling out of control: bad decisions upon bad decisions, destructive missions that compelled me to be just plain bad, and turmoil and pain spread to all the people close to me. It is time to fucking stop. Just stop.
I am married to the most patient and kind and forgiving man in the entire world. To realize how I've jeopardized my relationship with him hurts me more profoundly than anything I've endured so far in life. But he's still here -- ready to help me any way he can -- to hold my hair when I vomit from the nausea this new drug causes, to try to hold still me while I convulse violently as I sob and sob and sob from all this pain, to listen as I explain however painfully and inadequately how this mental illness deteriorates my thought process and decision making and basically melts any echo of voice of reason.
I sound like a fucking lunatic.
So, I stared at the pill bottle. I slowly twisted the red cap off. I tapped some pills out onto the counter. I cut four pills in half. I stared at them on the counter. Some pill dust scattered about, but for the most part I cut them cleanly enough. I put all halves but one in a ziplock baggie. I launched the remaining pill half to the back of my throat and chased it down with some stale, cold coffee.
And now, eight hours later, I can't stop wiggling about in this enormous bed. My husband is snoring quietly at my side, but my legs and toes are restless and my thoughts are racing and I realize that I should have taken my stupid drugs early in the morning instead of late afternoon. I could seriously go for a run right now.
I feel painfully manic. If I were home right now, I'd be retrimming the windows in my entryway and possibly baking a souffle and maybe even balancing the budget or solving all sorts of economic crises all at the same time. I have so much energy it isn't even funny. This energy will come in handy tomorrow when I chase my adorable kid all about uptown Minneapolis.
So here's hoping.
I'm going clean. No alcohol, no cigarettes, no distractions.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Observation
I teach high school. I'm amazed at how well my students work and how on-task they stay when I put cello music on the stereo. They haven't made a peep in at least fifteen minutes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
