Tag Archives: dark and twisty

Repression FAIL

“You were kind of a late bloomer as an alcoholic, right?”

“Yeah, I didn’t really start drinking seriously until around 2004 or so.”

“That makes sense, it fits. Because you strike me as the kind of alcoholic who’s drinking to kill something inside of you. Not really that y0u’re trying to kill yourself, in fact, but something inside you.”

“Yeah, but there comes a point where I don’t really give a fuck which one dies.” That’s scary. Scary scary shit.

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Separate, unrelated (?) entry follows:

Over and over I’ve heard about how alcoholics, when we stop using, often face a sort of flood of back-logged emotions that we’ve been avoiding for years, and that we don’t know how to deal with them, which can make the experience overwhelming, confusing, and very painful; our coping skills are often negligible at best. I do realize that I have difficulty experiencing in full my own emotions, or even just letting them happen without putting up a fight. This is not necessarily because of my alcoholism (although likely exacerbated by that); this was true of me long before I seriously began drinking.

Beginning around 1998 or 99, I began using the example of crying at a television show or a movie or a song (and I actually thought myself quite ingenious for coming with/realizing this and even thought it to be emotionally healthy, or something like that – a useful tool, at any rate). It was, I said, a safe place to have an emotional experience, with definite boundaries. There is a confined safe space to enter into, have a more or less “satisfying” emotional experience, and then leave it behind. Nice, neat, tidy. That theory may, in some way. also be indicative of why I seem to find it easier to experience emotions through other people, empathetically or sympathetically, than to experience or confront my own emotions.

I started to try to explain some of this to my shrink a few days ago, and he said, or kind of questioned, whether I might be trying to “warn” him. Entirely possible. But this whole thing with emotions scares me, both because facing whatever these  emotions are is scary as fuck in its own right, but also because I fear that if I do not or cannot, I will never escape the cycle of drinking, that “it” will end up driving me to the Bottle, make me drink; that I will succumb and accept defeat and destruction; that I will fail… again… and again; that my only escape really will, in the end, be death, not the pretty kind, the alcoholic kind; the kind that will scrape those rusty claws over all the people I care about & love, and it will then dig its claws into them, too, and never let go.

So I want this shit to come up from the ooze. It needs to. But I don’t know, you know?

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It’s Not All About the Joy

This was something I jotted a little while ago, and have been very reluctant to place here. But it’s been enough of a recurring theme, at varying levels of intensity, that it’s worth it, I think. It’s mostly a low level thrumming in the background more, but recurrent and consistent, and just putting it down helps me to move forward in many ways. So there’s that.

*************

Just get through this. Endure. It’s a passing thing, temporary. These emotions, this negativeness, will pass. They always do. But they always return. Which is the truer state?

I am jealous sometimes. I am envious. I want, in this case, to be accepted, to go out and be able to hang out, have fun, to laugh with others. And in the same breath, I have to find a way to accept my loneliness, because I can’t. I can’t go out to a bar and hang out and laugh. I can’t go out with anyone anymore, it seems. The temptation to drink will be there, and it might overwhelm me, and so I am jealous. I want to actually enjoy those things, be able to go out, socialize, laugh, enjoy the bond of friendship, the presence of others. I want to be able to enjoy, truly enjoy a fine Scotch, too. But I can’t. It will take hold of me; the gentle, warm finger of Scotch will so quickly turn into the rusty claws raking iron nails along the muscles and tendons of my arms and hands, shaking them furiously. I have to remember that. And accept the loneliness of freedom from that dirty cage. This is scant comfort right now, though, and it reeks of despair on either side. That’s alright; I’ll take what I can get until I can get more.

I can’t concentrate; I can’t be distracted by study, or even idleness. My head fails me, and fills instead with the empty muck of this isolation.

I can see why people want to make an Other of this stuff, to be able to put it all off into It, hand over the care and be free of it. Instead, I bleakly look and see that this Other is none other than myself. I have no recourse but to take responsibility for my Self, and square up and face it. Often, this fills me with inspiration and a true sense of beauty, enough to take the next step forward, feel the wind of the world spinning. Not just now.

I rely too much on externals for my sense of well being. I need something less ephemeral; I need a me, self-constituted and comfortable, steady. I am not That.

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