“Are we not like two volumes of one book?” ~ Marceline Desbordes-Valmore
So – here’s the thing. I can see how some of you get to my site. If someone clicks a link to my blog in a forum I belong to – I can see that a person from that forum checked out my blog. With me so far? Okay. So I belong to quite a few forums. Yesterday I saw that I was getting a lot of hits from one in particular. I don’t post much in there anymore because it’s not a writing forum, but anyway – I logged in there to check out what the fuss was about because obviously it was about me.
Well, someone had started a rather unflattering thread about me and had questioned my absence. That isn’t what’s important. What’s important is that he wrote something I think just might be true and it makes me real sad – but there isn’t a lot I can do about it. Here’s what he wrote: “And she could just have a brain that doesn’t work right, to live in the world of today.”
I decided to post his comment because in my memoir I’m not sure I go into how I feel about being a human being in the first place. I remember being three years old and getting up at night after my parents had tucked me in bed. I’d close my bedroom door to block out the bathroom light, grab a few stuffed animals and pull my little white rocking chair over to the window to look at the stars. I really wanted to go back to them – even then. I remember looking at my parents and thinking “Who ARE these people and what am I doing here?”
I’ve always felt like a stranger – always. The brain is a curious thing. Then there’s debate about the human spirit, soul and God – yada yada yada. I believe we’re all here to learn – that we’re here so we/our spirits can evolve. I also think we choose to come here – to be born. So maybe when I was three years old and wanting to go back to the stars I already knew I’d made some HORRIFIC mistake by choosing to come here. I don’t know… Life has, for the most part – definitely not all of it, been painful for me.
Anyway – I’m not sure if it’s that my brain doesn’t work right – like the poster in the forum wrote or if it’s that I’ve never fully wanted to be here in the first place (maybe it’s both). In my last treatment center my counselor helped me acknowledge that I’ve never had both feet here – that I’ve always had one foot out the door – so to speak. Do any of you ever wonder why I post so many fucking pictures of space and stars and shit? Now you know.
So I’m just trying to get through life – same as everyone else. Sometimes things go smoothly and I own my game and sometimes I choose to escape. It hit me on my 38th birthday that my time here is temporary. Of course, I already knew that, but the message that day was loud and clear and it felt like a birthday present. I sighed in thanks and almost started to cry. I’m just passing through and knowing that makes me feel better. I’m sure some people think that’s a pretty fucked up thing to write. Oh, well.
I suppose this is sort of like a journal entry. Welcome to me.
:) Happy 1 May.
Krishnamurti: “It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society.”
“Addicts who drag friends and family through attempts at sobriety time and again are nothing but a drain and the friends and family eventually wish the addict would just die.”
Someone wrote that in the Marriage and LTR forum on Craigslist. I’d just finished my third sip of coffee, and was looking for the garage sale section. I wasn’t awake. I felt like I’d been sucker punched.
I snorted hot coffee through my nose, sneezed, and reread the post. Anger and sympathy coursed through me like cold fire, and for the next two hours I tried, unsuccessfully, to communicate with the author of that post. I was terribly disappointed that I had failed to write one insightful sentence. I couldn’t do it – I had too much information, and not enough space to share it. I knew/know all about addiction, recovery, and what families go through when they have to witness someone self destruct, and their feelings of powerlessness to help. I’ve been to inpatient treatment for alcohol abuse five times in just under four years. I grew up with an alcoholic mother, and most members on both sides of my family fancy a cocktail or two.
And then between sniffles I had an epiphany. Just like that. The only things missing were several deafening cracks of flashing lightening and some rolling thunder as a fade out.
“I need to write a book.” I said in awe of my revelation.
“Who are you talking to?” My Messy T asked.
“No one. I‘m talking to myself again.”
I looked up to watch my son walk past me through the living room wearing his blue navy comforter over his head and clutching it under his chin. He looked like a 14 year old lanky Mother Superior with a brown wispy mustache.
“You’re going to write a book?” He asked, falling heavily on the couch.
“Yeah. I think I am.”
“Can I be in it?”
“I don’t know. Have you cleaned your room?
****I’ll say this – Addicts want to live. Sometimes we think we want to die, but I believe we really just want our addiction and suffering to die. For some of us it’s near unbearable living sober and/or drunk sometimes. Our realities are different from others, even when we’re sober. We’re wired differently and sometimes everything hurts, and the pressure is crushing. We need our loved ones to do two things – be courageous enough to learn about our problem, and continue to encourage us to find and apply our strengths.