This website was originally intended as a site which would be devoted to my training for the marathon and in the process, a satirical take on attempting to prepare myself to audition for the 2010 season of Survivor. While these plans have been a bit waylaid, I’ve realized that for me, writing presents a catharsis of sorts which in itself opens up the synapses to a therapy of my own creation. It’s no great mystery to anyone who has known me for even a short while that my life is a washing machine, a turgid spin cycle, and lately I’ve found myself running low on quarters. I can’t wrap my head around any existensial philosophy without downing a few Ativan, so I’ll leave that for later, suffice to say it’s a longplaying Kansas single running perpetually through my head. So, the point is, are the drugs and alcohol a product of my damaged psyche or vice versa? Am I self medicating or running away? Or both?
I did mention the drugs and alcohol right? With me, the drugs aren’t really the problem, oh sure, I like the occasional bump as much as the next guy, who doesn’t want to have the energy to stay up talking 30’s cinema with random strangers at a bar? I’ve certainly had enough negative experiences smoking pot to keep me away for the most part, laying half naked in a snowbank imagining that your heart is bursting through your chest will do that to a guy. The alcohol though, the alcohol is like that girl you hook up with around 4am late one Friday night, you take her home and the next day you realize she’s none too pretty and she might have stolen some money from your wallet, but the following weekend you find yourself giving her a call, thinking it couldn’t have been that bad. Every Friday, like clockwork, my brain seems to forget we’ve sworn off the previous week’s activity, the fight at the bar, passing out in the taxi, the Saturday and Sunday in bed till 6pm, but it does remember how good that first drink feels going down. It’s like a bad magic trick, you know how it’s done, you know how it’s going to finish, but you still fall for it every time, or at least clap half-heartedly in admiration.
Of course, this neurological sabotage is in no way unique to my situation as an alcoholic, but I am in a position where I can try my best to explain it, deal with it and possibly help others to understand it as well. It’s not easy to figure out considering the baggage that comes with it, there’s a hard to define “what”, “why” and “when” that’s difficult to put into context. I’m still coming to grips with the cause and effect, but maybe writing about it will open up some thought processes. The thing is after 15 years, it’s not just “having a drink”, it’s part of my personality, it’s a lifestyle, it defines me in the perceptions of others. The fear of breaking with something that has been such a part of me is that after it’s gone, I’m not sure exactly what I’ll have left.