“We must be willing to let go of the life we have planned, so as to accept the life that is waiting for us.”
Remaining sober is just as bad as a break up to me. I always either relied on one or another. Boyfriend or alcohol. Boyfriend and alcohol.
Men came and left, they fell in love with me as fast as they fell out of it. For many years, I have allowed multiple people who had no love for me to stay in my heart rent free. I have however managed to stay the way I am.
I am optimistic, I am dying to love, I am the wide eyed girl you meet at the bus stop who believes in true love and non-fat butter croissants. Today, I got scared. I can lose everything but this. I cannot lose my desire to love or I will lose myself.
Sometimes there is no best way to say good bye I learned. You just have to go. Run far and wide. Don't look back. Don't stop.
Go go go go my child. What yours will find its way if not let it be.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
My tragic love story
The only other I ever loved more than myself was a stiff drink.
Just the other day, my shrink had asked me to picture a happy safe place. All I could think of was me on a bar stool, in a dimly lit English bar decorated in the colors of faded red and moldy green hues and standing magnificently before me would be a vodka tonic. My blanket of warmth, my best friend, my lover.
Every single time I tried to bid farewell, I would feel like I never gave it a proper good bye. I find myself at yet another bar, giving it one eulogy after another only to have the bar staff make sure it never truly died. I may stumble home with my "take away" wine and promise myself and anyone willing to listen that.. Tomorrow is another day, another good bye, another try.
Am I really an alcoholic?
I had my first drink when I was 14. I remember the taste of overwhelming lime concentrate that over powered the cheap vodka. Over the years, I would discover a whole new world. So many drinks and not enough weekends. My curiosity to drink turned into a deadly silent compulsion.
It soon became a love/hate affair, the more I tried to stay away the more I was drawn to it. I had both celebrated joyous occasions and my lowest points tied to it. Like an abusive relationship, the more hurt it inflicted, the more I craved it and I kept running back. Quickly enough, the bad outweighed the good. It was making its way into every aspect of my life and demanding to take over.
When I drank, the world became a better place. It is almost as if the world wars never happened. Care bears truly exist and I am happy. I feel trapped in a blurry bubble of joy, desperately trying to maintain balance. Too little and the buzz may wear off, too much and I end up sad about something stupid. The endless chase of "the perfect median" would keep my drinking habit alive for years and steer me further and further away from everything else and quite frankly, the possibility of perfect.
Just the other day, my shrink had asked me to picture a happy safe place. All I could think of was me on a bar stool, in a dimly lit English bar decorated in the colors of faded red and moldy green hues and standing magnificently before me would be a vodka tonic. My blanket of warmth, my best friend, my lover.
Every single time I tried to bid farewell, I would feel like I never gave it a proper good bye. I find myself at yet another bar, giving it one eulogy after another only to have the bar staff make sure it never truly died. I may stumble home with my "take away" wine and promise myself and anyone willing to listen that.. Tomorrow is another day, another good bye, another try.
Am I really an alcoholic?
I had my first drink when I was 14. I remember the taste of overwhelming lime concentrate that over powered the cheap vodka. Over the years, I would discover a whole new world. So many drinks and not enough weekends. My curiosity to drink turned into a deadly silent compulsion.
It soon became a love/hate affair, the more I tried to stay away the more I was drawn to it. I had both celebrated joyous occasions and my lowest points tied to it. Like an abusive relationship, the more hurt it inflicted, the more I craved it and I kept running back. Quickly enough, the bad outweighed the good. It was making its way into every aspect of my life and demanding to take over.
When I drank, the world became a better place. It is almost as if the world wars never happened. Care bears truly exist and I am happy. I feel trapped in a blurry bubble of joy, desperately trying to maintain balance. Too little and the buzz may wear off, too much and I end up sad about something stupid. The endless chase of "the perfect median" would keep my drinking habit alive for years and steer me further and further away from everything else and quite frankly, the possibility of perfect.
Welcome 2012
A brief recap of what happened in 2011.
I fell in love with a man and moved in with him shortly after. We had a barbeque on our balcony and buddah paintings I collected from my various Asian travels we hung around the apartment. Then we fought and fought some more. I started playing bowling with the empty wine bottles I had collected. I tried to leap out the balcony one night. I finally decided to end it in a less messy way by doing shots of vodka and popping sleeping pills with each. I passed out at the 27th. I woke up with bags of my belongings next to me at the hospital. He had left me in the most brutal way possible.
Angry, alcohol deprived me is not to be fucked with. I went back to "our" apartment and tried to stab him. I didn't manage to stab him even though I distinctly remember pulling two knives. Oh well.
Briefly homeless, I had spent weekends at friends, week nights at relatives and finally moving back home with my parents. The idea didn't sit well with me so I trolled Craiglist for a room mate. I finally decided that it was easier giving losers on dating websites an impression I might fall in love with them. I moved into someone I met off the website's spare room shortly after.
My drinking got progressively worst. I had started chopping up my prescription medication and snorting them because happy dust is unavailable in this city then I would be sad when there was no rush and drank some more. This was also when I met N. (This deserves a story on its own)
One night I decided that I was going to end it (again). I had 3 drinks at a bar downstairs, feeling more depressed with each drink, I think the decision to end my life was a brilliant one. I found myself sitting in that spare room feeling empty. I opened the window and looked down. 24 floors down. Fuck this. I poured myself another drink. Looks like we are back to shots and pills. The last thing I remembered was finishing possibly all alcohol in the apartment and everything I could find that resembled a pill in any shape or form. I passed out at the 40th.
N saved me.
I was in a coma for 2 days. Doctors say I was "inches from death". My liver was going to fail on me. I remember being slightly amused that I was put in an adult diaper. I also had a pee bag. My sister said N stroked my hair while was in the ICU.
Fast forward to 2012.
I am 8 days sober. I am attending AA meetings. I no longer hate my shrink. I haven't tried to kill myself or anyone yet.
I think this year might be a better year.
I fell in love with a man and moved in with him shortly after. We had a barbeque on our balcony and buddah paintings I collected from my various Asian travels we hung around the apartment. Then we fought and fought some more. I started playing bowling with the empty wine bottles I had collected. I tried to leap out the balcony one night. I finally decided to end it in a less messy way by doing shots of vodka and popping sleeping pills with each. I passed out at the 27th. I woke up with bags of my belongings next to me at the hospital. He had left me in the most brutal way possible.
Angry, alcohol deprived me is not to be fucked with. I went back to "our" apartment and tried to stab him. I didn't manage to stab him even though I distinctly remember pulling two knives. Oh well.
Briefly homeless, I had spent weekends at friends, week nights at relatives and finally moving back home with my parents. The idea didn't sit well with me so I trolled Craiglist for a room mate. I finally decided that it was easier giving losers on dating websites an impression I might fall in love with them. I moved into someone I met off the website's spare room shortly after.
My drinking got progressively worst. I had started chopping up my prescription medication and snorting them because happy dust is unavailable in this city then I would be sad when there was no rush and drank some more. This was also when I met N. (This deserves a story on its own)
One night I decided that I was going to end it (again). I had 3 drinks at a bar downstairs, feeling more depressed with each drink, I think the decision to end my life was a brilliant one. I found myself sitting in that spare room feeling empty. I opened the window and looked down. 24 floors down. Fuck this. I poured myself another drink. Looks like we are back to shots and pills. The last thing I remembered was finishing possibly all alcohol in the apartment and everything I could find that resembled a pill in any shape or form. I passed out at the 40th.
N saved me.
I was in a coma for 2 days. Doctors say I was "inches from death". My liver was going to fail on me. I remember being slightly amused that I was put in an adult diaper. I also had a pee bag. My sister said N stroked my hair while was in the ICU.
Fast forward to 2012.
I am 8 days sober. I am attending AA meetings. I no longer hate my shrink. I haven't tried to kill myself or anyone yet.
I think this year might be a better year.
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