I needed to psych myself up for my appointment today, so I thought I would come on here and write a little. I had good intentions. Then I decided drinking, pills, and generous doses of daytime & nighttime cold medicine (always an interesting variable to any buzz) might be more effective, so I tried that out. It worked reasonably well, but once again, I went through my counseling session a little foggy. Holy shit, it was a nightmare. It didn’t go well at all. I think we were on completely different pages.
Now I’m home, and I’m so down. I’m not sure why. A lot of things were brought up during the meeting that I never wanted brought up. So maybe I’m weak, and unable to keep secrets, and vulnerable to things that are so far removed from my daily life that they might as well belong to someone living in an alternate universe. I don’t maintain boundaries very well, and I violated a boundary within myself that I’ve viewed as sacrosanct for the majority of my life. No one touches it. I don’t even touch it. But I breached it today, and now I’m waiting for something along the lines of a lightning bolt from heaven to knock me over. What does this mean for the future? Maybe nothing as far as the whole therapy thing, but maybe everything in my own life. How many times when we were kids did adults tell us…don’t pick old scabs. Let them heal. They can scar. Leave them alone. My kindergarten teacher must have said that to kids twice a day. The lesson hasn’t changed.
I realized today that there is a word I have never said. I’ve never even typed it. Does anyone else have a word like that? I figure everyone must. I knew its meaning even before I knew the word, but it has been off-limits. Say it to my face, and I will say, “Fuck you.” Well, probably not, but I might think it. The counselor said it in passing, and I wasn’t going to say that to him, obviously. But I wasn’t prepared. Couldn’t we have just talked about Christmas for an hour?
Then there’s the issue of Benazir Bhutto’s assassination today. Grr. Nothing like an opposition leader being assassinated to put piddley things into perspective. Ah, yes, her government warned her against gathering publicly after she complained about their insufficient attempts at security…but maybe those insufficient attempts were more deliberate than they seemed…okay, I’m trailing. Time to sign off, as I don’t want my blog to turn into a drunken rambling.
I have a bad habit of giving away my money when I’m drunk. It’s also the only time I ever bet, but I will bet without inhibitions if the opportunity arises. I’m at a lucky stage now where I have no money to give away, but typically, I buy rounds and then try to force my money on the friends I just bought rounds for. I will also offer whatever money I have in my pockets to the stranger who opens up and tells me he’s broke. I come up with elaborate excuses as to why I don’t need it.
I’ve lost a lot of money this way. I never regret it, because I don’t value money for money’s sake, and I would rather give it away than do something logical like put it in a bank and make interest off it…but it’s not a useful habit when the end of the month rolls around.
Today marks the 13th anniversary of the first time I ever got drunk. I was 13. From the little I remember, it was a lot of fun, but it also landed me in the hospital with a .37 BAC. Woops. That was when I learned that drinking had to be done in moderation. When I got my first job, all my money went to paying off that bill to my parents. I would have happily paid them three times over from the guilt I felt.
The humdrum, simple moments of life are what I want so badly I can taste it. I fantasize about it. I have dreams flushed with the radiance of life’s simple pleasures, the everyday trials and rewards that routine brings. I also have exasperating dreams where I use copiously and can’t get high, and mind-blowingly satisfying dreams where I use and it feels sooo good, like it did the first time.
I wake up every morning with the hope that my high today will be better than it was yesterday, that maybe it will feel good again. The ecstasy of using disappeared a while ago. For the most part, all it does now is help me maintain and keep feelings of sickness at bay. My greatest wish is to wake up, go to a dull job, come home, eat dinner, spend a few hours in the evening winding down, and repeat it the next day. I would find so much satisfaction in that. I fear losing everything, including drugs, which are my final and failsafe lifeline. I am fucking up so badly with my obligations at work and home that I anticipate encountering something drastic every time I step outside my door. Even so, drugs create this invisible shield that buffers me from all of it. It’s a mental partition that keeps me from being too concerned over the reality of my situation, which is that I’m hanging on by less than a thread. My goal is to make people think I’m hanging on by at least a thread, but that veneer is beginning to wear extremely thin. Every day I screw up and blow things for myself and people around me, and I think, tomorrow; I’ll get it right tomorrow. Every night I go to bed with the best of intentions to get up at 5AM, crank out a week’s worth of work by 9AM, another week’s worth by noon, tend to everything I’ve been neglecting for months, and achieve some damage control by patching up a bit of the harm I’ve caused. Realistically, I usually stay up using until 5AM, but this thought process carries over from Monday to Tuesday, then to Wednesday and so on, until another Friday has come and gone. Then I think, I’ll catch up this weekend. I anticipate each weekend as a chance to make up some extra credit points. It never happens. Pretty soon weeks start bleeding into each other, then months, and it starts to sink in that I’ve lost control. Still, every morning I wake up hoping that today will be a better day than yesterday, and that I can make things up a little to the people in my life.
I used to have this fantasy as a kid that I could freeze time and still move around in the world. For instance, I would freeze time and spend a week doing whatever the hell I wanted, and I could clean my room too. When time started up again, my room would be clean and I wouldn’t be in trouble anymore. I wish I could do that now, and just take some time to myself to rest and recharge. I would keep time frozen as long as it takes to finally get a restful sleep and wake up feeling refreshed and restored. I wish I could actually ask people for an opportunity like that, to just take a week to rest. I hit a wall a long time ago, and I just need to back up for a short while and catch my breath. I can’t bring myself to talk about it with anyone though.
‘I Not Stupid’ is the name of a movie I saw several years ago at a Seattle film festival. It was great. Anyway, the title went through my head as I woke up this morning. Last night was the big night…my presentation for the two-month project that I unwisely condensed into a few days of frenzied research and nutty writing. The presentation was more than an hour long (brownie points), and I think it went very well. I was able to answer every question and look like I knew what I was doing. I even felt like I knew what I was doing. Peculiar….
I planned to get unreservedly drunk last night in celebration, but I had an agonizing headache (too much learning?), so I will celebrate tonight. Tomorrow I will actually pick up a book of fiction again and feel the splendor of its enthralling pages.
I am so thankful the semester is winding down. A few finals, a few more papers, and that’s it!
This semester has been a bit tumultuous. I slunk back to school after a long break (it’s been over two years with one failed attempt in between). I jumped into the endeavor without any sensible precautions as to what I could reasonably take on. It seemed like a breeze. I was riding high on the fact that I had aced every test and paper, and it seemed perfectly manageable for a while. To my shy embarrassment, I was the student my teachers were making exemplary examples of (although I was unintentionally acing some of their tests while on cocaine, for which I meekly apologize now). I thought that if I could just keep going a little longer, I would have the semester successfully bagged. I lost control a couple of weeks ago, and now I’m scrambling to keep my head afloat. I hope I prove to be more bouyant than I feel.
I almost forgot to show up for a test when I was high. Still moderately high, I walked in thirty minutes late and felt pressure to catch up so the rest of the class wouldn’t be waiting on me before all the tests were in and the lecture could begin. I almost certainly set a new record for speed writing while on heroin. [A word to the wise: if you find yourself taking a test while mentally compromised, use a pencil. I did not.] As it turned out, I flew through the damn thing and turned it in before half the class did. I get that test back tomorrow. It goes without saying that my hopes are gloomy. I should rightfully be failed based simply on the number of times I scratched out my tell-all, ink-etched sentences and started over.
Tuesday is Judgment Day. I have an hour-long presentation to give on a project that was assigned in early October, but that I’ve conveniently adjourned from my thoughts until this week. Hmm. It should be a disaster of colossal proportions, but in light of the worst case scenario, I’m game for offering my classmates an hour of spirited entertainment.
I seem to be at least the second generation in my family to embody this trend. Well…I’ve dipped to new lows, but I’m not the first to dabble in scholastic debauchery. My dad was the first that I know of. He survived high school, college, and law school with perhaps the highest grades and lowest median average of sobriety of any student. He was voted most outstanding senior by the junior class. He was elected the head of a straight-laced and straight-faced pre-med fraternity that promptly became suspended after it rapidly deteriorated to the most scandalous party fraternity on campus. To be fair, he put his nose to the grindstone in law school by working daily and attending classes nightly, but his weekends never lent themselves entirely to studying.
The fundamental difference between my dad and I is that he was drinking then, and I’m doing drugs now. However much I laugh at my situation, I cannot possibly continue for long like this. Heroin and education are fundamentally opposed, not least because of the fact that I hardly remember portions of my life for the last two years. Even if I continue to grasp course material, memorization is impossible, and I am therefore doomed to fail if I can’t quit. I don’t think I will fail any classes this semester, which I consider that a bona fide miracle, but I can’t ask to get by on another semester of lucky breaks. The question now is whether to enroll for any classes next semester or forget about school once again.
165 days until the best day of the year. 165 days until I: wake up, greet St. Patrick, ditch work, get sloppy with the dearest of family and friends, eat breakfast, ride in the parade, crash the bar(s) (Celtic Tavern is usually the first and last stop, although one year I made it to McCormick’s), and thank God once again for giving us such a blessed saint! (Honestly. Not just because the world uses his day as an excuse to get trashed.)
2008 is a leap year, so there is one extra day to suffer through until we get to celebrate St. Patrick’s feast. 2012 (the year it would have been a Friday) is also on a leap year, which means St. Patrick’s Day won’t fall on a Friday again (as it did in blessed 2006) until 2017. Too bad. It falls on a Saturday in 2012 (as it did in 2007), which is always fun because the parade actually falls on the holiday.
Eireann Go Braugh!
There are many reasons for drinking;
One has just entered my head;
If a man doesn’t drink when he’s living,
How the hell can he drink when he’s dead?
I’ve drunk to your health in the pubs;
I’ve drunk to your health in my home;
I’ve drunk to your health so many times,
That I’ve almost ruined my own!