Which translates to "The Same."
The holidays were WAY quiet, despite many invites to go places to celebrate. One invitation I had was to go out to Ohio and share the integration my geek buddy's teenage son back into his life. He's already married with a single-digit kiddo from but the first child he had out of wedlock was far from his life due to distance and the child's mother. Now he's getting to know his teenage son through things like Twitter (before all our eyes) and business trips that he turns into personal trips, and the son is all for it because, well, the boy's gay and probably needs all the family he can get.
And thus why I turned the invitation down. It was a family affair, one of love and acceptance of a gay youth. It was something I wanted personally -- too much. I wanted it to apply to myself and I just couldn't let myself steal this kid's thunder, because when I do finally meet my geek buddy, I'm going to out myself. I feel he deserves to know for all the personal that he shares with me (us), and for all the affection he has shown me.
So far, it seems to work. Those who I love, to whom I came out to, loves me still. I doubt the streak would end with this guy because, hello, he just welcomed his gay son into his life with much fanfare (letter of announcement, invitations, everything). So you'll probably agree, when I make my diva move, it shouldn't be at the expense of someone else's.
And then on top on it, the Blizzard of '10 hit day after Crimmas. No more ice-driving for me! One near-death experience was plenty enough.
I also had an invite to go over to MFTD's family's house on Christmas Day for din-din. I din-din't. It was another family shindig that I didn't feel I was an actual member of. Plus there's this whole "by the way, the guy 10 years older than your son, who has known him since he's 15, who strongly influenced him to go away to Missouri and changed his life, (in some parts for the better-hello, he's a Doctor now)--well yeah, you know THAT guy ... ? He's gay."
Now, for New Year's Eve, I had the invite which I've enjoyed two years in the past--My Geek Celebrity's house. (Yes, I like that. I haven't called him this before, but I've referred to him before. He's the geek guy who is the lowest-key gay dude I've ever known. He runs a podcast with his loud, celebrity-seeking, name-dropping, attention-whore co-host. My Geek Celebrity has much more class than that, although thanks to the efforts of his co-host, he now enjoys a moderate level of geek fame and influence.
THIS is the guy who I've gone to the movies with on lots of occasions, and sometimes just he and I, and each time I always think--"Tell this guy! Maybe you and he will hook up!" except he's not 'manly' enough for me either. Mind you, I think I'm way more effeminate than he is, but he's not got those 'turn me on' qualities that would cause me to drop my guards and tell my WHOLE NYC GEEK COMMUNITY that I'm gay.
And let me add a new detail (finally!) I've started drinking.
Okay, well, not a lot of drinking. But ever since I've had a few successful whiskey sours, I've been lured by the memory of the taste to mix them at home and just drink them here. So twice I've had an evening polishing off one of those hand-sized, $7 bottles of whiskey mixed in with various amounts of Mango Lemonades and Crystal Lights.
So on New Year's Eve, with plans to go to My Geek Celebrity's place for festivities, and meeting up with My Con Buddy (the one I think is so handsome, and yet is so straight), for my warm-up drank activities, I chose Jim Beam. Is it "a fifth" that comes in the hand-sized flat bottle? Well whatevs, I drained it by 7:30. Then I set off toward the party. Then I realized My Con Buddy was still handsome and still straight. And I still haven't told him I'm gay. Nor My Celebrity Geek. And I realized too that they both had excellent positions in life. And that they were going to celebrate for the New Year because why not? Life was good!
For them.
But for me? In mid-travel, while fetching some Starbucks latte and a slice of pizza to prevent totally TOTAL drunkness, I realized I was suddenly, amazingly blindingly pissed off beyond all measure. I suddenly didn't want to "celebrate" a fucking thing.
"Celebrate?" HA!!!!!!!!! Celebrate WHAT?
Well, that was New Years Eve. I texted My Con Buddy and let him know I was changing my mind and so I went home and I played ChampionsOnline because Fuck Them, That's Why.
New Year's Day came and I had no hangover or regrets and it was another opportunity to be at peace with no one else's attention needing mine, so I played more ChampionsOnline for hours and hours and that's how I spent the holidays.
No better but no worse.
And that's just my life. It's redeemable, in theory, but ... yeah. Not so much right now.
But wow. For a while back then, I sure did come close, didn't I? Can that be my consolation prize?
Showing posts with label Addiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Addiction. Show all posts
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Thursday, May 10, 2007
One Dragon, Slain. Sideways-Eight To Go...
I had another all-day training to give today, and with a training partner this time. And I only stressed about it this morning, instead of all last week. So that dragon is slain.
Arriving "home" today, I was glad to see George's car gone, because for the entirety of yesterday, he was loud sloppy drunk. When I walked into the house yesterday, he was screaming raging at something/someone in his room upstairs. He was alone and sports radio was playing. Last year, George had gone to rehab because the Mets had not won the world series and he crashed his car with alcohol-poisoned grief. So I assume that yesterday the Mets had not done well again, and he finally stopped the charade of sobriety so he could mourn Spartan-style. This lasted all through the night, and all through the morning when I was leaving for work. Sloppy, slurry, mumbly drunk. Just like he was before the rehab and flying the flag high for AA.
But what I did see today was the handyman's truck in the driveway, as I pulled up. The handyman is an hispanic fellow whom George's father uses around this house to repair, remodel, and renovate. He's a nice enough fellow whom George seems to hate. Can't say a single kind word about him. So as I'm putting my car in park on the street (since this honkin' big truck is in the driveway), I see a plastic, white ball come rolling out of the open garage and down the driveway. Out dashes the handyman chasing after it as I'm walking up the sidewalk. I figure that he's getting his leisure on--until suddenly there is George's father holding a wiffle-ball bat in his hand in the garage doorway.
George's father looks at me rather woodenly (one of his only expressions I've observed to date) then calls to the handyman, "Okay I think that's enough baseball for now." Only the quaver in his voice gave away the old man's embarassment. I was so surprised that I laughed, and then turned the laugh into encouragement. "No go right ahead and have fun!" I said, dashing past him into the house and making a beeline through the garage to my room.
What the hell..?
For a few hours while I manipulated my blog, my mind kept saying, "That old man is using that handyman for some nasty hijinks!" But then it occured to me. That old man is using the handyman to recapture the times he never had with his son. George is autistic. It's obvious to me now. And his father missed out on raising him because he has never figured him out. And of course, George hates the handyman for being handy, and being able to fix houses, replace skylights, and playing ball with his Dad. And I suppose I would hate the handyman too, if I were George.
But as long as I'm living in this house, I can't be what George needs. If I ever lend myself to him for friendship, I'll need a place to escape to when I've exhausted my daily allotment of goodwill.
I'm sorry, George.
PS; George's father is a millionaire. The Handyman is in for quite a nice payday one day.
Arriving "home" today, I was glad to see George's car gone, because for the entirety of yesterday, he was loud sloppy drunk. When I walked into the house yesterday, he was screaming raging at something/someone in his room upstairs. He was alone and sports radio was playing. Last year, George had gone to rehab because the Mets had not won the world series and he crashed his car with alcohol-poisoned grief. So I assume that yesterday the Mets had not done well again, and he finally stopped the charade of sobriety so he could mourn Spartan-style. This lasted all through the night, and all through the morning when I was leaving for work. Sloppy, slurry, mumbly drunk. Just like he was before the rehab and flying the flag high for AA.
But what I did see today was the handyman's truck in the driveway, as I pulled up. The handyman is an hispanic fellow whom George's father uses around this house to repair, remodel, and renovate. He's a nice enough fellow whom George seems to hate. Can't say a single kind word about him. So as I'm putting my car in park on the street (since this honkin' big truck is in the driveway), I see a plastic, white ball come rolling out of the open garage and down the driveway. Out dashes the handyman chasing after it as I'm walking up the sidewalk. I figure that he's getting his leisure on--until suddenly there is George's father holding a wiffle-ball bat in his hand in the garage doorway.
George's father looks at me rather woodenly (one of his only expressions I've observed to date) then calls to the handyman, "Okay I think that's enough baseball for now." Only the quaver in his voice gave away the old man's embarassment. I was so surprised that I laughed, and then turned the laugh into encouragement. "No go right ahead and have fun!" I said, dashing past him into the house and making a beeline through the garage to my room.
What the hell..?
For a few hours while I manipulated my blog, my mind kept saying, "That old man is using that handyman for some nasty hijinks!" But then it occured to me. That old man is using the handyman to recapture the times he never had with his son. George is autistic. It's obvious to me now. And his father missed out on raising him because he has never figured him out. And of course, George hates the handyman for being handy, and being able to fix houses, replace skylights, and playing ball with his Dad. And I suppose I would hate the handyman too, if I were George.
But as long as I'm living in this house, I can't be what George needs. If I ever lend myself to him for friendship, I'll need a place to escape to when I've exhausted my daily allotment of goodwill.
I'm sorry, George.
PS; George's father is a millionaire. The Handyman is in for quite a nice payday one day.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Not For The Lack Of Trying
(Originally 3/22/07)
George sneaks into the house at night. After my post, I purposed to say something when he returned home. It's a ranch style, so right inside the front door you can go upstairs to the kitchen, livingroom, or his three rooms and two bathrooms--or downstairs to the laundry room, den, my bedroom, my bathroom, or garage. So I was tucked away in my room and barely heard him open the door. He slipped off his shoes and then I heard nothing more. Didn't hear him go up the steps or anything. Didn't notice if he turned on a light. Don't know if he went to the kitchen to eat, or just put something in the fridge. Nothing.
That's what makes me think he was either drunk or high or both. Because my lights were on, and I don't sleep with them on. He knew I was awake. And most times, he calls down to me when he comes in to say hello or something--anything really. And that's what I was waiting for. I was going to respond, then ask him what movie he went to see after he dropped me off at the car dealer. Have a little convo and whatever else he may have wanted to chat'bout. Nothing. I haven't spoken to him since the dealer.
Well, that's too bad. I'll keep trying because I said I would, but at least now I know that it's not just me. As I told you in my history with George--he knows how to lie. He wants me to believe he's been sober since the rehab, so when he goes out to drink, or smoke crack, or whatever, he's not interested in talking. Which suits me fine--but does him no good. And I don't want to force a conversation with him, or expose his inebriation, because I don't want to live in a constant state of confrontation and performing interventions.
So that's all I'm going to say about that right now.
In other news, I had another bank relapse. Two actually. Last week, my gym charged me more than I expected them to and pushed my balance into the negatives. Then two more debit charges appeared after that. Goodbye $105. I let it go because I still had savings in another account and I figured it was a punishment I deserved (I kept saying 'This is the last time!' but still I'm an idiot, so too bad for me). Then I had a payday and shortly thereafter, the accident. Then I did my taxes. Then I paid my insurance bill for the month. Then I rented a car, and they overcharged me to cover the rental without a credit card. Then they didn't refund me the money the same day I returned the car (still haven't, in fact. 2-3 business days, my ass). Then I had to lay down $100 surety for the new car. Then I had to gas up. Then I had to eat. Then ... then ... then ... and next thing I know, my whole paycheck is gone and I'm in the negatives again. And here comes three more debit purchases.
Khaaaaaaan!
Goodbye ANOTHER $105.
I've already flogged myself, so I wont waste bytes repeating it. But My Friend The Doctor bailed me out again. I couldn't even call him this time. I just sent him an e-mail, informing him for the first time about the whole car situation plus the moneylessness. I couldn't ask him for $$ but the e-mail in itself was obviously a request. Which he knew instantly and responded. But aside from the money, he reassured me that I'm not the Crown Prince of all Sad-Ass Losers. He reminded me of my progress over the last year and under what kind of circumstances (See George; Former "My Benefactor", Postmodern Crackhead) that I managed to do it.
My Friend, The Doctor. He really wants to see me succeed. And I really want to. He believes in me. And I really want him to. He supports me, emotionally as well as financially. And I really need him to.
So that's alright then. And My Hero's a friend of mine too!
P.S.; note to self; GET A CREDIT CARD. Even though the interest will be 18%, like the car loan, a credit card would have saved me $210 dollars in overdraft fees for $35 worth of Starbucks and McDonald's, because I could have credit-carded the rental car instead of debiting it. And I can beat the interest if I pay the entire charge before the due date. The next spam application for credit, I'm filling out.
George sneaks into the house at night. After my post, I purposed to say something when he returned home. It's a ranch style, so right inside the front door you can go upstairs to the kitchen, livingroom, or his three rooms and two bathrooms--or downstairs to the laundry room, den, my bedroom, my bathroom, or garage. So I was tucked away in my room and barely heard him open the door. He slipped off his shoes and then I heard nothing more. Didn't hear him go up the steps or anything. Didn't notice if he turned on a light. Don't know if he went to the kitchen to eat, or just put something in the fridge. Nothing.
That's what makes me think he was either drunk or high or both. Because my lights were on, and I don't sleep with them on. He knew I was awake. And most times, he calls down to me when he comes in to say hello or something--anything really. And that's what I was waiting for. I was going to respond, then ask him what movie he went to see after he dropped me off at the car dealer. Have a little convo and whatever else he may have wanted to chat'bout. Nothing. I haven't spoken to him since the dealer.
Well, that's too bad. I'll keep trying because I said I would, but at least now I know that it's not just me. As I told you in my history with George--he knows how to lie. He wants me to believe he's been sober since the rehab, so when he goes out to drink, or smoke crack, or whatever, he's not interested in talking. Which suits me fine--but does him no good. And I don't want to force a conversation with him, or expose his inebriation, because I don't want to live in a constant state of confrontation and performing interventions.
So that's all I'm going to say about that right now.
In other news, I had another bank relapse. Two actually. Last week, my gym charged me more than I expected them to and pushed my balance into the negatives. Then two more debit charges appeared after that. Goodbye $105. I let it go because I still had savings in another account and I figured it was a punishment I deserved (I kept saying 'This is the last time!' but still I'm an idiot, so too bad for me). Then I had a payday and shortly thereafter, the accident. Then I did my taxes. Then I paid my insurance bill for the month. Then I rented a car, and they overcharged me to cover the rental without a credit card. Then they didn't refund me the money the same day I returned the car (still haven't, in fact. 2-3 business days, my ass). Then I had to lay down $100 surety for the new car. Then I had to gas up. Then I had to eat. Then ... then ... then ... and next thing I know, my whole paycheck is gone and I'm in the negatives again. And here comes three more debit purchases.
Khaaaaaaan!
Goodbye ANOTHER $105.
I've already flogged myself, so I wont waste bytes repeating it. But My Friend The Doctor bailed me out again. I couldn't even call him this time. I just sent him an e-mail, informing him for the first time about the whole car situation plus the moneylessness. I couldn't ask him for $$ but the e-mail in itself was obviously a request. Which he knew instantly and responded. But aside from the money, he reassured me that I'm not the Crown Prince of all Sad-Ass Losers. He reminded me of my progress over the last year and under what kind of circumstances (See George; Former "My Benefactor", Postmodern Crackhead) that I managed to do it.
My Friend, The Doctor. He really wants to see me succeed. And I really want to. He believes in me. And I really want him to. He supports me, emotionally as well as financially. And I really need him to.
So that's alright then. And My Hero's a friend of mine too!
P.S.; note to self; GET A CREDIT CARD. Even though the interest will be 18%, like the car loan, a credit card would have saved me $210 dollars in overdraft fees for $35 worth of Starbucks and McDonald's, because I could have credit-carded the rental car instead of debiting it. And I can beat the interest if I pay the entire charge before the due date. The next spam application for credit, I'm filling out.
Updatificationism
(Originally 11/3/06)
When I got home from work yesterday, My Benefactor was home and present. He said he tried to call and leave me a message on my cell that he was staying over his girlfriend's in NYC. The only unusual thing about that was that he tried to call me. He can never remember my number and he has only once called me in the year that I've lived here.
Two things still make me believe that he relapsed;
1) The empty Hennessey bottle existed.
2) His girlfriend drinks alcohol and uses the prescription drug of his choice, and she's not pledged to any kind of sobriety. She happy as things are, plus her boyfriend (My Benefactor) is rich.
At any rate, he went to two meetings last night, but by himself so I have no proof that he went at all. One was an AA and one was an NA. He said they were easy to get to and so he knows definitely that he will be back. He has a plan to go Tuesdays to the cool meeting and Thursdays to the big meetings.
Now today, he will be going to the month-long rehab facility. He feels confident that he's going to stay for a month. Time will reveal. If he did relapse, it didn't knock him out of the box and that's a good thing.
As for me? I feel more secure, but I am going to stick with my exit strategy. This is a rollercoaster ride that I want off of.
When I got home from work yesterday, My Benefactor was home and present. He said he tried to call and leave me a message on my cell that he was staying over his girlfriend's in NYC. The only unusual thing about that was that he tried to call me. He can never remember my number and he has only once called me in the year that I've lived here.
Two things still make me believe that he relapsed;
1) The empty Hennessey bottle existed.
2) His girlfriend drinks alcohol and uses the prescription drug of his choice, and she's not pledged to any kind of sobriety. She happy as things are, plus her boyfriend (My Benefactor) is rich.
At any rate, he went to two meetings last night, but by himself so I have no proof that he went at all. One was an AA and one was an NA. He said they were easy to get to and so he knows definitely that he will be back. He has a plan to go Tuesdays to the cool meeting and Thursdays to the big meetings.
Now today, he will be going to the month-long rehab facility. He feels confident that he's going to stay for a month. Time will reveal. If he did relapse, it didn't knock him out of the box and that's a good thing.
As for me? I feel more secure, but I am going to stick with my exit strategy. This is a rollercoaster ride that I want off of.
Was It Inevitable
(Originally 11/2/06)
That My Benefactor would relapse? Yesterday I came home, he wasn't here. He had his car and took it somewhere. He didn't return all evening and stayed gone all night. Then this morning when I searched for the cat food he bought, I found an empty Hennessey bottle (or however its spelled). It could be old but I'm going to go with my first impression.
This morning I answered his house phone, which I try never to do because his loony ex-wife might be calling, but I did and it was his loony ex-wife, Then I made a serious mistake. I gave her my cellphone number. She asked for it and what was I supposed to say? I know that I am the only live conduit she has to this man. When I'm ignoring the phone upstairs, I still know that. But I slough it off and say to myself, 'She can leave a message'. And sometimes I know that his answering machine is full (yes, he has a machine--not a calling plan with voicemail).
And don't think that after the first time she calls my cell that I won't identify her number and commence to ignoring her calls from then on. Because I DO have voicemail. She can leave a message. I'll call her back after 9:00PM. Because she won't be paying my cellphone bills. And she won't be paying for the therapy she seeks from me. And I never wanted to get sucked up into this constellation in the first place.
It's time to start an exit strategy. My conscience be damned. This is how my life was for the first 30+ years until my father was found emaciated on the city streets, too drunk to ever recover. Why do I need to repeat this thing? For money? For closure? I think not. I think that part of me that needs to care for addicts ... no, that's not even true what I was about to type. I was going to say it was cauterized and long dead, but that's not true. At that meeting the other night, I was as alive and empathetic as I've ever been. And if My Bevefactor stumbled through the door right now, I'd try to help. And when his crazy-ass ex-wife calls me, and it's after 9:00PM, I will try to help. And I guess that the way it is.
But I still don't have to live in this house to do all this. I still think I need to leave, for my own emotional health. Plus, my being here is enabling him to go relapse. As long as he knows the cats are taken care of, he feels free to go into his 30+ year habit of chucking responsibility, taking nothing seriously, excusing his behavior because of 'learning disabilities' and burning out his mind. I don't even like the guy, so why do I need this?
I wish I could do it today, but I can't. I'll need to really start saving money now. I'll have to set a target date and use my pathetic math skills to plot what I can afford and what I can't.
Just when things were going so well. I should have known.
But I am still a writer, and I'm My Hero's friend, and other people's friend too. And all that part is still alright then.
That My Benefactor would relapse? Yesterday I came home, he wasn't here. He had his car and took it somewhere. He didn't return all evening and stayed gone all night. Then this morning when I searched for the cat food he bought, I found an empty Hennessey bottle (or however its spelled). It could be old but I'm going to go with my first impression.
This morning I answered his house phone, which I try never to do because his loony ex-wife might be calling, but I did and it was his loony ex-wife, Then I made a serious mistake. I gave her my cellphone number. She asked for it and what was I supposed to say? I know that I am the only live conduit she has to this man. When I'm ignoring the phone upstairs, I still know that. But I slough it off and say to myself, 'She can leave a message'. And sometimes I know that his answering machine is full (yes, he has a machine--not a calling plan with voicemail).
And don't think that after the first time she calls my cell that I won't identify her number and commence to ignoring her calls from then on. Because I DO have voicemail. She can leave a message. I'll call her back after 9:00PM. Because she won't be paying my cellphone bills. And she won't be paying for the therapy she seeks from me. And I never wanted to get sucked up into this constellation in the first place.
It's time to start an exit strategy. My conscience be damned. This is how my life was for the first 30+ years until my father was found emaciated on the city streets, too drunk to ever recover. Why do I need to repeat this thing? For money? For closure? I think not. I think that part of me that needs to care for addicts ... no, that's not even true what I was about to type. I was going to say it was cauterized and long dead, but that's not true. At that meeting the other night, I was as alive and empathetic as I've ever been. And if My Bevefactor stumbled through the door right now, I'd try to help. And when his crazy-ass ex-wife calls me, and it's after 9:00PM, I will try to help. And I guess that the way it is.
But I still don't have to live in this house to do all this. I still think I need to leave, for my own emotional health. Plus, my being here is enabling him to go relapse. As long as he knows the cats are taken care of, he feels free to go into his 30+ year habit of chucking responsibility, taking nothing seriously, excusing his behavior because of 'learning disabilities' and burning out his mind. I don't even like the guy, so why do I need this?
I wish I could do it today, but I can't. I'll need to really start saving money now. I'll have to set a target date and use my pathetic math skills to plot what I can afford and what I can't.
Just when things were going so well. I should have known.
But I am still a writer, and I'm My Hero's friend, and other people's friend too. And all that part is still alright then.
These Rooms
(Originally 10/31/06)
Hopefully I'm not leaking precious information, but they call the meeting places of AA "Rooms". Tonight's meeting was what My Benefactor was looking for. He was attracted to these people and impressed by their qualities. As was I. I think he's found anew home. That one we went to on Monday was sad and depressed. This one was upscale, upbeat, and moving.
Made me wish I was an alcoholic, just so I could join their community. No joke.
But that actually is the point. I'm not them. I was the only one in the room of twenty-odd people, who was not an alcoholic. They took turns reading paragraphs from the short stories in the back of their AA book and then sharing how they related to the story. Every one of them related a lot of the struggles everyone is subject to. The therapist in me was clicking overtime, wanting to reassure, bolster, and validate. Then each of their stories diverged at the same point -- the point where I could not join with. They all used alcohol to cope with their struggles, and they all crashed. I lost my ability to help at that point because I didn't experience--do not experience--how to struggle with coping mechanisms in a sober head and at the same time, resist and ignore the urge to pick up a bottle.
But what I liked about the group tonight was that they all said going back to the bottle would just be stupid. They acknowledged how much it had wrecked their lives, and the temptation now was not worth going back to the ruin. No one can tell that to the alcoholic better than the alcoholic. So I actually don't belong there. And I actually can't help there. So I have an excellent reason for not figuring myself into that. And so I won't.
But after being at a good one, I now kind of wish I could.
And I knew that would happen.
So what was my hesitation all about?
Oh, that's right--My Benefactor.
He's the big yuck in the equation.
But tonight, he was good. He only started out not obeying the common boundaries of human society, but as the room filled up, he found his place and stayed quiet, and listened.
I hope he learns something. I hope he finds a lot of friends. I hope he stays sober.
That would be alright then!
Hopefully I'm not leaking precious information, but they call the meeting places of AA "Rooms". Tonight's meeting was what My Benefactor was looking for. He was attracted to these people and impressed by their qualities. As was I. I think he's found anew home. That one we went to on Monday was sad and depressed. This one was upscale, upbeat, and moving.
Made me wish I was an alcoholic, just so I could join their community. No joke.
But that actually is the point. I'm not them. I was the only one in the room of twenty-odd people, who was not an alcoholic. They took turns reading paragraphs from the short stories in the back of their AA book and then sharing how they related to the story. Every one of them related a lot of the struggles everyone is subject to. The therapist in me was clicking overtime, wanting to reassure, bolster, and validate. Then each of their stories diverged at the same point -- the point where I could not join with. They all used alcohol to cope with their struggles, and they all crashed. I lost my ability to help at that point because I didn't experience--do not experience--how to struggle with coping mechanisms in a sober head and at the same time, resist and ignore the urge to pick up a bottle.
But what I liked about the group tonight was that they all said going back to the bottle would just be stupid. They acknowledged how much it had wrecked their lives, and the temptation now was not worth going back to the ruin. No one can tell that to the alcoholic better than the alcoholic. So I actually don't belong there. And I actually can't help there. So I have an excellent reason for not figuring myself into that. And so I won't.
But after being at a good one, I now kind of wish I could.
And I knew that would happen.
So what was my hesitation all about?
Oh, that's right--My Benefactor.
He's the big yuck in the equation.
But tonight, he was good. He only started out not obeying the common boundaries of human society, but as the room filled up, he found his place and stayed quiet, and listened.
I hope he learns something. I hope he finds a lot of friends. I hope he stays sober.
That would be alright then!
Monday, May 7, 2007
Anyway, As I Was Saying About "Sideways"...
(Originally March 3 2006)
Imperfect people crashing up against each other. I found myself identifying with the Miles character in the following scenes (not necessarily in order);
Every time he went for a drink to blind himself through a bad patch. The only difference is that my drug of choice is sugar. Instead of a Merlot, I dine on a Jim Dandy. A second runner-up is City of Heroes.
Every hookup he tried to accomplish with Maya. To get that close to a woman who was obviously interested, and then self-sabotage after those tragic tender few lost seconds. Those 'kissable' moments.
The not getting his book published.
Being on the outside, that is, a mere onlooker, while his buddy was getting more than some.
Eating alone in restaurants.
More later...
Imperfect people crashing up against each other. I found myself identifying with the Miles character in the following scenes (not necessarily in order);
Every time he went for a drink to blind himself through a bad patch. The only difference is that my drug of choice is sugar. Instead of a Merlot, I dine on a Jim Dandy. A second runner-up is City of Heroes.
Every hookup he tried to accomplish with Maya. To get that close to a woman who was obviously interested, and then self-sabotage after those tragic tender few lost seconds. Those 'kissable' moments.
The not getting his book published.
Being on the outside, that is, a mere onlooker, while his buddy was getting more than some.
Eating alone in restaurants.
More later...
This Is The Way We Wash Our Face
(Originally March 2 2006)
Something about that little childhood ditty makes me so happy. I love to sing it when my cat is scrubbing her freshly licked paw across her head. Nothing seems more serene to me than an animal with it's eyes closed.
So I just finished watching "Sideways". I asked myself why, when I found myself way over identifying with Paul Giamatti's character. I asked aloud, "Why do guys like us always end up with guys like that for friends?" This on the heels of this morning's post.
My Benefactor is a stone-cold junkie, folks. Another reason I have not posted much is because I've been discovering two months worth of facets of my Benefactor's nature and I didn't want to put all his business out in the ether. I felt I owed him that much, since he went and saved my life and whatnot.
But the movie "Sideways" oh so gloriously illustrated that these stories are worth telling. Imperfect people crashing up against one another. So now I'm moved to say, think, and find something positive about the Benefactor. Like his generosity. I should be praising the fact that he took me in. But the flaws in myself keep pointing out the negatives. And the sadist in me keeps wanting to accentuate them. And the assassin in me wants to sling them as weapons against him. And I do not understand that about me.
You know what? I'm just going to go with it. It's what I know.
So my Benefactor wanted an instant friend, a cat-poop cleaner, and a babysitter (for when he brings his legal-aged teen son over on a weekend and has nothing but criticism and drunken hazed evenings to offer him. And I would've done, if not for the extremely sad condition of the boy. A condition brought on by having a father like my Benefactor).
I cannot be an instant friend. I went into this out of total desperation. That was not the best platform for friendship, in my opinion. I have never given anyone the blessings of my unconditional affection. Just ask all my ex-girlfriends. Ask my present friends. I always hold something back. I could list each person that I consider a friend and for each of them tell you what I'm withholding. I want to believe that we all do that, but I think there are some in this world who do not.
God above, how I admire those.
That in fact is the reason why I now know I have the job I'd like to keep for what's left of my life. Mental retardation is such a gift. Remember when I cried buckets upon viewing "The Other Sister"? It was the raw honesty and unbridled emotion that struck me as something priceless and beautiful. I long to be able to say everything I think. Let it all out in a flood of retarded candor. Ask for what I want without worrying what the listener will think of me then. Tell how scared I am without dreading rejection.
My job as Assistant Director of Psych Services puts me in contact with many mentally retarded people. And I find I love every one of them. I find myself not wanting to correct their flaws, but embrace them. Emulate them. For others, I will write down clinical analysis and use sterile shop terms for their conditions, but in my heart I think they are the emotional princes and princesses of this world.
I should only live long enough to have the honesty of a retarded person.
Something about that little childhood ditty makes me so happy. I love to sing it when my cat is scrubbing her freshly licked paw across her head. Nothing seems more serene to me than an animal with it's eyes closed.
So I just finished watching "Sideways". I asked myself why, when I found myself way over identifying with Paul Giamatti's character. I asked aloud, "Why do guys like us always end up with guys like that for friends?" This on the heels of this morning's post.
My Benefactor is a stone-cold junkie, folks. Another reason I have not posted much is because I've been discovering two months worth of facets of my Benefactor's nature and I didn't want to put all his business out in the ether. I felt I owed him that much, since he went and saved my life and whatnot.
But the movie "Sideways" oh so gloriously illustrated that these stories are worth telling. Imperfect people crashing up against one another. So now I'm moved to say, think, and find something positive about the Benefactor. Like his generosity. I should be praising the fact that he took me in. But the flaws in myself keep pointing out the negatives. And the sadist in me keeps wanting to accentuate them. And the assassin in me wants to sling them as weapons against him. And I do not understand that about me.
You know what? I'm just going to go with it. It's what I know.
So my Benefactor wanted an instant friend, a cat-poop cleaner, and a babysitter (for when he brings his legal-aged teen son over on a weekend and has nothing but criticism and drunken hazed evenings to offer him. And I would've done, if not for the extremely sad condition of the boy. A condition brought on by having a father like my Benefactor).
I cannot be an instant friend. I went into this out of total desperation. That was not the best platform for friendship, in my opinion. I have never given anyone the blessings of my unconditional affection. Just ask all my ex-girlfriends. Ask my present friends. I always hold something back. I could list each person that I consider a friend and for each of them tell you what I'm withholding. I want to believe that we all do that, but I think there are some in this world who do not.
God above, how I admire those.
That in fact is the reason why I now know I have the job I'd like to keep for what's left of my life. Mental retardation is such a gift. Remember when I cried buckets upon viewing "The Other Sister"? It was the raw honesty and unbridled emotion that struck me as something priceless and beautiful. I long to be able to say everything I think. Let it all out in a flood of retarded candor. Ask for what I want without worrying what the listener will think of me then. Tell how scared I am without dreading rejection.
My job as Assistant Director of Psych Services puts me in contact with many mentally retarded people. And I find I love every one of them. I find myself not wanting to correct their flaws, but embrace them. Emulate them. For others, I will write down clinical analysis and use sterile shop terms for their conditions, but in my heart I think they are the emotional princes and princesses of this world.
I should only live long enough to have the honesty of a retarded person.
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