Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Nicorette gum makes my eyes bleed
But I'm having a piece. Yes, it's that time again. Cara's quitting smoking again.
Decided to start skipping the wake up cigarette since I always want one with my morning coffee at work. First off, the first couple hours of the day without a smoke is like nails on a chalkboard inside your veins. Seriously, have you ever heard your own blood cry?
For some reason, morning's hard. After work's hard. I thought work would be hard, but the cigs during work feel more like "addiction" cigarettes than any other ones. You take a few minutes. You have one. Then at the same time your crying veins quiet down they get loud all over again, because you just want to sit and drink coffee and smoke, and you don't want to get back to work.
It's funny what else. How when you smoke all the time, you don't even notice, but if you are cutting down you mind that you don't even notice. I picked up a paper, read an article with half a cigarette, and all I could think was "half my cigarette's gone," and I couldn't even enjoy the last half because the paper kept burning and it kept getting shorter, and my mind couldn't shake the dread. I don't know if it was worse it was almost gone or that almost gone meant back to work.
Maybe both.
I used to always be able to tell when I began to hate a job, because that is when I begin to smoke the most. You start smoking enough at a job then it's like any little amount of work warrants a smoke break.
"I'll check on this table, then have a cigarette."
"After I make this drink, I'm gonna have a cigarette."
"After I brush these pool tables, I'll have a cigarette."
"After this table leaves, I'm going to have a cigarette."
It's funny the way cigarettes punctuate things. It's also funny how they make little rewards, like offering a piece of candy or a Coke to a kid for being good.
Especially with schoolwork:
"I read everything; I just have to write the paper. I'll have a cigarette, and get started right away."
Or studying:
"I just finished a chapter. I'm gonna have a cigarette."
Or writing an article:
"OK, it's mostly written. There's _____ words there. I just need to tweak the lede a little bit and trim it. I'll have a cigarette, then take another look."
There's the get-off-work cigarette, the home-from-work cigarette, the after-dinner cigarette, the before-bed cigarette, cigarette with a beer, cigarette with a glass of wine, cigarette with a good book, cigarette with a walk to the store, cigarette on the way to class, cigarette right after class, cigarette after a movie, cigarette after a two-hour trip to Target ...
***
We have a plan, my partner and I, and we are going to beat this. We're going to do it for good. I know because ...
My grandmother used to talk to me about it, reflecting on all the dying cancer-ridden beds she has sat beside in the last several years. Once, she said to me, "Young people never think it'll matter. They think it'll take a few years off your life, and you won't want them. But when you get older, all you can think is 'just a few more years.' And you're not ready to go yet."
I vaguely understood what she was trying to tell me, but I didn't want to, either.
Somehow, though, I believe her. I'm thinking about how in love I am. I'm thinking about the career I'm about to start. I'm thinking I would like to have children. I'm thinking, I've got a lot I still want to do.
Seeing my mother go through what she just went through leaves such a horrible aftertaste in my mouth, that should be even worse with each cigarette I have. I know it breaks so many hearts when i do.
She quit when she was in her early 30s. Colon and liver cancer at 50 was not part of the plan. Like the stroke she had when I was 14, the doctors can't ever name what exactly pulled the trigger, but if genes are an map outlining which roads your body might take, if they are an indication of what's in store, mine probably aren't the sort of thing I should ignore.
They say in the first five years after quitting stress and trauma can trigger relapse. I've only quit for two significant stretches of time out of the strings of attempts I've made, but in each case, where I started again, there were similarities.
I know the similarities, and I know cigs have never helped make anything better. In the worst times, they gave me something to do, something to focus on to dull the pain. Yes, I enjoy smoking occasionally, but at a pack each day, so few are memorable compared to the others: burnt up amplified addiction, making me short of breath, making me irritable, making me wonder if the smoke on the way to class doesn't linger and bother some stranger next to me, trying to learn, making me wonder which headache is going to be the headache, making me wonder which cells are already there, making me wonder how many more lines will be drawn on my face ...
Addiction is a terrible thing. This shit's evil, but I think knowing something for what it is could be the key to beating it. Maybe the key to beating it is doing so before it breaks you.
But I'm having a piece. Yes, it's that time again. Cara's quitting smoking again.
Decided to start skipping the wake up cigarette since I always want one with my morning coffee at work. First off, the first couple hours of the day without a smoke is like nails on a chalkboard inside your veins. Seriously, have you ever heard your own blood cry?
For some reason, morning's hard. After work's hard. I thought work would be hard, but the cigs during work feel more like "addiction" cigarettes than any other ones. You take a few minutes. You have one. Then at the same time your crying veins quiet down they get loud all over again, because you just want to sit and drink coffee and smoke, and you don't want to get back to work.
It's funny what else. How when you smoke all the time, you don't even notice, but if you are cutting down you mind that you don't even notice. I picked up a paper, read an article with half a cigarette, and all I could think was "half my cigarette's gone," and I couldn't even enjoy the last half because the paper kept burning and it kept getting shorter, and my mind couldn't shake the dread. I don't know if it was worse it was almost gone or that almost gone meant back to work.
Maybe both.
I used to always be able to tell when I began to hate a job, because that is when I begin to smoke the most. You start smoking enough at a job then it's like any little amount of work warrants a smoke break.
"I'll check on this table, then have a cigarette."
"After I make this drink, I'm gonna have a cigarette."
"After I brush these pool tables, I'll have a cigarette."
"After this table leaves, I'm going to have a cigarette."
It's funny the way cigarettes punctuate things. It's also funny how they make little rewards, like offering a piece of candy or a Coke to a kid for being good.
Especially with schoolwork:
"I read everything; I just have to write the paper. I'll have a cigarette, and get started right away."
Or studying:
"I just finished a chapter. I'm gonna have a cigarette."
Or writing an article:
"OK, it's mostly written. There's _____ words there. I just need to tweak the lede a little bit and trim it. I'll have a cigarette, then take another look."
There's the get-off-work cigarette, the home-from-work cigarette, the after-dinner cigarette, the before-bed cigarette, cigarette with a beer, cigarette with a glass of wine, cigarette with a good book, cigarette with a walk to the store, cigarette on the way to class, cigarette right after class, cigarette after a movie, cigarette after a two-hour trip to Target ...
***
We have a plan, my partner and I, and we are going to beat this. We're going to do it for good. I know because ...
My grandmother used to talk to me about it, reflecting on all the dying cancer-ridden beds she has sat beside in the last several years. Once, she said to me, "Young people never think it'll matter. They think it'll take a few years off your life, and you won't want them. But when you get older, all you can think is 'just a few more years.' And you're not ready to go yet."
I vaguely understood what she was trying to tell me, but I didn't want to, either.
Somehow, though, I believe her. I'm thinking about how in love I am. I'm thinking about the career I'm about to start. I'm thinking I would like to have children. I'm thinking, I've got a lot I still want to do.
Seeing my mother go through what she just went through leaves such a horrible aftertaste in my mouth, that should be even worse with each cigarette I have. I know it breaks so many hearts when i do.
She quit when she was in her early 30s. Colon and liver cancer at 50 was not part of the plan. Like the stroke she had when I was 14, the doctors can't ever name what exactly pulled the trigger, but if genes are an map outlining which roads your body might take, if they are an indication of what's in store, mine probably aren't the sort of thing I should ignore.
They say in the first five years after quitting stress and trauma can trigger relapse. I've only quit for two significant stretches of time out of the strings of attempts I've made, but in each case, where I started again, there were similarities.
I know the similarities, and I know cigs have never helped make anything better. In the worst times, they gave me something to do, something to focus on to dull the pain. Yes, I enjoy smoking occasionally, but at a pack each day, so few are memorable compared to the others: burnt up amplified addiction, making me short of breath, making me irritable, making me wonder if the smoke on the way to class doesn't linger and bother some stranger next to me, trying to learn, making me wonder which headache is going to be the headache, making me wonder which cells are already there, making me wonder how many more lines will be drawn on my face ...
Addiction is a terrible thing. This shit's evil, but I think knowing something for what it is could be the key to beating it. Maybe the key to beating it is doing so before it breaks you.
Labels: Addiction, Cancer, Quitting Smoking
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Shag Day Lunch Break
"It's that time, huh?" my boss says, opening the fridge.
"Yep," I say with a smile.
I put my leftover hamburger (fake meat!) helper in the office microwave for a minute-and-a half. I fill up my water bottle and descend the steps and go down the hallway out the back door. Students are gathered in clusters, others walking, some on the phone, but I see one empty concrete table left for me, in the middle of everything.
I take a seat and start on my food. It is lukewarm -- more like half-hot, half-cold. I eat the hot parts and decide to save the rest for dinner. I reach for my bag of chips that is supposed to be my afternoon snack. Ever bite into a regular potato chip when you were almost positive you had brought jalapeno chips?
I open up the book I'm reading, and glance over it while smoking a cigarette. Having taken the last table, I am obliged to say "yes" when a young man asks if he can sit with me.
I read. He quietly eats his lunch, sitting sideways. A passerby approaches and says to the stranger, "Good job, today, man!"
And he says thank you.
Ellen Willis is talking about baroque and classical sex, defining them and applying them to music, books, movies, pornography, pop psychology and feminism.
I listen. I try to figure out which I subscribe to, but I can't, as each seems to have within it some inherent setback, a cultural paradox she develops and points out.
I turn the page without another thought, and begin an essay on her desert island album pick. Turns out to be a lengthy but pensive ode to The Velvet Underground. I am not surprised by this, as the book contains another essay, "Beginning to See the Light," the same words in gold decorating its spine.
I eat up Willis' descriptions of the punk aesthetic and its ties and frays from rock 'n' roll, how art rock became a means to justify itself as such, and how it arose out of need for self-acceptance as well as respect. She goes on to talk about new wave as the culmination of the two and as an antithesis as well.
The stranger gets up, and I turn to light another cigarette. He stops and says, "I'm sorry, but why the cigarette?"
I stare dumbfounded, not quite insulted. His air has that of a legitimate question, with not even an echo of condemnation; the sound of his voice is pure inquisition.
"You just look so peaceful," he said. It's a beautiful day, and you've got your book, and you look so comfortable. I was just wondering if it added something. You just didn't look like anything was missing."
Again, he is genuine, but unapologetic, just staring at me expectedly.
"I don't know," I said. "I'm an addict. I guess if I knew the answer to that, maybe I could ..." I couldn't finish my sentence.
On second thought, a word enters me: companionship. But the stranger who has been sitting silently near me for quarter of an hour is gone.
I return to my book, and now Lou Reed has become something that Mick Jagger and Pete Townshend never could be. And now "White Light/White Heat," "Heroin," "Pale Blue Eyes" and so many others contain the spirit of contempt, despair, confusion, enlightenment, estrangement and many other elements, and they just sort of wash over me all at once with her words, and Reed's lyrics are floating through the spaces in the crowd.
Lou Reed said, "I don't know."
And Ellen Willis said, "I don't know."
I checked my time, and put up my cell phone. I closed my book, and put it away. Through all this I am exchanging stares with another stranger, 10 feet away, sitting down, facing me, on a wall. He's faceless, except for his red and yellow striped polo shirt, and a sternness that is not in the least bit a smile. His look tries to penetrate across to me, but I cast my eyes downward.
I clumsily take up my things and stand up. I trip over my left foot. I still do not look back. I sigh, and walk slowly through the doors, up the stairs, head full of words, and sit back down at my desk.
"It's that time, huh?" my boss says, opening the fridge.
"Yep," I say with a smile.
I put my leftover hamburger (fake meat!) helper in the office microwave for a minute-and-a half. I fill up my water bottle and descend the steps and go down the hallway out the back door. Students are gathered in clusters, others walking, some on the phone, but I see one empty concrete table left for me, in the middle of everything.
I take a seat and start on my food. It is lukewarm -- more like half-hot, half-cold. I eat the hot parts and decide to save the rest for dinner. I reach for my bag of chips that is supposed to be my afternoon snack. Ever bite into a regular potato chip when you were almost positive you had brought jalapeno chips?
I open up the book I'm reading, and glance over it while smoking a cigarette. Having taken the last table, I am obliged to say "yes" when a young man asks if he can sit with me.
I read. He quietly eats his lunch, sitting sideways. A passerby approaches and says to the stranger, "Good job, today, man!"
And he says thank you.
Ellen Willis is talking about baroque and classical sex, defining them and applying them to music, books, movies, pornography, pop psychology and feminism.
I listen. I try to figure out which I subscribe to, but I can't, as each seems to have within it some inherent setback, a cultural paradox she develops and points out.
I turn the page without another thought, and begin an essay on her desert island album pick. Turns out to be a lengthy but pensive ode to The Velvet Underground. I am not surprised by this, as the book contains another essay, "Beginning to See the Light," the same words in gold decorating its spine.
I eat up Willis' descriptions of the punk aesthetic and its ties and frays from rock 'n' roll, how art rock became a means to justify itself as such, and how it arose out of need for self-acceptance as well as respect. She goes on to talk about new wave as the culmination of the two and as an antithesis as well.
The stranger gets up, and I turn to light another cigarette. He stops and says, "I'm sorry, but why the cigarette?"
I stare dumbfounded, not quite insulted. His air has that of a legitimate question, with not even an echo of condemnation; the sound of his voice is pure inquisition.
"You just look so peaceful," he said. It's a beautiful day, and you've got your book, and you look so comfortable. I was just wondering if it added something. You just didn't look like anything was missing."
Again, he is genuine, but unapologetic, just staring at me expectedly.
"I don't know," I said. "I'm an addict. I guess if I knew the answer to that, maybe I could ..." I couldn't finish my sentence.
On second thought, a word enters me: companionship. But the stranger who has been sitting silently near me for quarter of an hour is gone.
I return to my book, and now Lou Reed has become something that Mick Jagger and Pete Townshend never could be. And now "White Light/White Heat," "Heroin," "Pale Blue Eyes" and so many others contain the spirit of contempt, despair, confusion, enlightenment, estrangement and many other elements, and they just sort of wash over me all at once with her words, and Reed's lyrics are floating through the spaces in the crowd.
Lou Reed said, "I don't know."
And Ellen Willis said, "I don't know."
I checked my time, and put up my cell phone. I closed my book, and put it away. Through all this I am exchanging stares with another stranger, 10 feet away, sitting down, facing me, on a wall. He's faceless, except for his red and yellow striped polo shirt, and a sternness that is not in the least bit a smile. His look tries to penetrate across to me, but I cast my eyes downward.
I clumsily take up my things and stand up. I trip over my left foot. I still do not look back. I sigh, and walk slowly through the doors, up the stairs, head full of words, and sit back down at my desk.
Labels: Addiction, Books, Ellen Willis, Music, People-watching, Quitting Smoking
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Recycled Air
I'm at the teashouse and it's cold, and the caffeine's giving me the shakes and there are a million things I want to read and write, or maybe I could just sit here and do a sudoku puzzle. I dunno ...
I do want to tell you something i learned this summer. One of the so many things, and that is to never be afraid of your own success. When I grow up, I want to be a writer, a teacher, a photographer, a philosopher, an athlete, and a musician ... but when I grow up is false. It implies some far away time. Like when you're a kid. Like the kids at camp. Like how the kids come on Sunday and cry sometimes because they can't imagine the weeklong lifetime they are about to experience without sometimes the dearest ones present -- their parents, or grandparents, or big brother, or dog, or the teddy bear they forgot at home even.
A week goes by, with all the time in between spent learning, doing new things, doing favorite things, making things, meeting people, or dancing when they never have before, or getting to play with food or shaving cream without getting in trouble, or being able to pick up an adult and dunk them underwater, or climbing a ladder to go down a slide that lasts forever ... until you reach the pool and want to get out and do it again.
And this says something about time. Something we've said before about time, but in a different way ... the part where the future is not far off from the present. That is exactly right. But it is something that, given the right perspective, can become a point of celebration.
I love you, ____. I still think you are beautiful, and intelligent, and articulate, and talented, and amazing. Please do not be afraid of your own success.
Sometimes i think in idealistic cliches, but then I wonder where they come from. I wonder where all these movies, like Dream for an Insomniac or Akeelah and the Bee come from. Are they based on fictional, irrational, theories for dreamers? Or are they based on the possibilities that lie inside every living thing in their potential for greatness as being of god, as beings formed by energy that moves with a will that is part of a greater, universal will.
I'm sorry to get cerebral here. I'm just as emotional. I've found it doesn't have to be hard to go between the two anymore. I have found that emotion and logic do indeed work together. I have found that as I suspected science and romance are the same thing (listen to Rilo Kiley's "Science vs. Romance" if you get a chance. That song is fucking amazing.)
It wasn't just Camp. It wasn't just new friends. It wasn't just therapy. I wish I could explain it better, but when words fall short, or become too much, I am reminded to simplify. And just as in meditation, sometimes the best thing to do is to clear your mind completely, blocking out memory, music, and the metaphorical weather of whatever is going on in the world, and feel deep down to your soul, spirit, will, inner child, whatever you want to call it because these words are only symbols, which is the point ... and listen to your intention, because rationalism does not always explain things the way they can be assumed. And in this case, my intention is to acknowledge something that was beautiful, and fun, and that had moments of inspiration, but something that has reached ... I don't know what ... I suddenly have this image in my mind of a ferry reaching the seattle skyline ... I guess in other words, and for lack of an original thought necessarily ... We've gotten where we needed to go.
And if you can conclude all of these things, and sincerely mean them, then I pray you will hold onto them dearly, in the face of whatever negativity you are digesting, and encountering, because the lessons, the feelings you are resurrecting from the depths of your mind and heart are the most important things that could ever come out of this entire experience, and having these things to hold, whether with me, near me, remembering me, talking to me, or just reading a book or mixing or not thinking at all ...
I've said it before, I'll say it again,
I believe in you. I love you. And I hope you, in time, will continue to remember the good parts, and that you will also be aware that no apologies are necessary ... that all this had a purpose, as this present moment does.
I will be here for you if you need me, always. At the moment this is hard, but it will get easier, because one of the things I have learned is that I am stronger than I have ever known. That any number of things, as you observed, could have broken me long ago. And so in being strong, as this does hurt even if I appear cold, I am comforted by my faith in myself and in you and the universe. And I wish you the best in finding out what that strength is for you -- because you have it too. Everyone does.
Believe me, because just as you can find proof for the theories that cause you to sink, or want to give up, or to shut down under the pressure ... you can, with the same eyes, the right pair of eyes (Hunter s. Thompson said) find proof to support a theory of something better and beautiful and comforting ...
I have to go.
But for what it's worth i know exactly what you have meant in everything you've said, and I want you to know that it is not too late to experience this or learn these things so long as you remember them and act on them.
It's like the part on Waking Life when the four guys are walking down the street, and they are talking about theory vs. action.
It's like addiction, whether to chocolate, or advil, or a way of thinking as habit. There's this model my shrink gave me. I don't know if I told you about it, but it had the steps of how to overcome ... whatever ... I honestly think it applies to everything ... but there's this part, this line, this stage I sat in for what seems like forever. It was the contemplation stage. The next stage was action.
I was so afraid of failing that I couldn't act. I've always felt like that. It's because of how I grew up. Not an excuse, just an unhealthy way of existing. So anyway, after the action phase, and a couple other steps, the last step was relapse, otherwise known as failure in my eyes ... but my shrink said, if you get to that one, you're not done for ... you just start at the beginning again.
And that's what life is about anyway. Robert fulghum said that long ago, and I read it in one of his books before i left for Seattle ... order to disorder to order again ...
Regardless, acknowledging this cycle gives me the perspective I need to keep things in line so I can handle less than perfect times ...
But the steps ... btw, it's not 12 steps. It's some theory in psychology ... but anyway, if you get to the end, and you look at how much and little, depending on your perspective, it took to get from the theory part to the action part, you start to believe in yourself, and the process, and you decide that it is amazing, and worthwhile, but not necessarily something you want to do again just to start at the beginning.
Now i suddenly wonder if you will understand. I see a slight contradiction in what I'm saying, but I don't. I guess it is all true ... Contradictions don't always disprove truths, but nevertheless, I will say that with these contemplations and actions and relapses, whatever the case, there are so many choices in between.
I feel i have made a very large tangent, but on the other hand, I have said exactly what is necessary, because thinking of things in these terms is just one facet of the jewel the Sandman gave to Daniel, and i know, though, because I believe in you, that seeing this one side may be enough to show you them all.
Okay, i have to go now, but thank you very much for everything. I do appreciate it. I really do. You taught me some things early on. Remember that when you think you need someone to tell you the things you already know.
Have a good day, sweetheart,
Love,
I'm at the teashouse and it's cold, and the caffeine's giving me the shakes and there are a million things I want to read and write, or maybe I could just sit here and do a sudoku puzzle. I dunno ...
I do want to tell you something i learned this summer. One of the so many things, and that is to never be afraid of your own success. When I grow up, I want to be a writer, a teacher, a photographer, a philosopher, an athlete, and a musician ... but when I grow up is false. It implies some far away time. Like when you're a kid. Like the kids at camp. Like how the kids come on Sunday and cry sometimes because they can't imagine the weeklong lifetime they are about to experience without sometimes the dearest ones present -- their parents, or grandparents, or big brother, or dog, or the teddy bear they forgot at home even.
A week goes by, with all the time in between spent learning, doing new things, doing favorite things, making things, meeting people, or dancing when they never have before, or getting to play with food or shaving cream without getting in trouble, or being able to pick up an adult and dunk them underwater, or climbing a ladder to go down a slide that lasts forever ... until you reach the pool and want to get out and do it again.
And this says something about time. Something we've said before about time, but in a different way ... the part where the future is not far off from the present. That is exactly right. But it is something that, given the right perspective, can become a point of celebration.
I love you, ____. I still think you are beautiful, and intelligent, and articulate, and talented, and amazing. Please do not be afraid of your own success.
Sometimes i think in idealistic cliches, but then I wonder where they come from. I wonder where all these movies, like Dream for an Insomniac or Akeelah and the Bee come from. Are they based on fictional, irrational, theories for dreamers? Or are they based on the possibilities that lie inside every living thing in their potential for greatness as being of god, as beings formed by energy that moves with a will that is part of a greater, universal will.
I'm sorry to get cerebral here. I'm just as emotional. I've found it doesn't have to be hard to go between the two anymore. I have found that emotion and logic do indeed work together. I have found that as I suspected science and romance are the same thing (listen to Rilo Kiley's "Science vs. Romance" if you get a chance. That song is fucking amazing.)
It wasn't just Camp. It wasn't just new friends. It wasn't just therapy. I wish I could explain it better, but when words fall short, or become too much, I am reminded to simplify. And just as in meditation, sometimes the best thing to do is to clear your mind completely, blocking out memory, music, and the metaphorical weather of whatever is going on in the world, and feel deep down to your soul, spirit, will, inner child, whatever you want to call it because these words are only symbols, which is the point ... and listen to your intention, because rationalism does not always explain things the way they can be assumed. And in this case, my intention is to acknowledge something that was beautiful, and fun, and that had moments of inspiration, but something that has reached ... I don't know what ... I suddenly have this image in my mind of a ferry reaching the seattle skyline ... I guess in other words, and for lack of an original thought necessarily ... We've gotten where we needed to go.
And if you can conclude all of these things, and sincerely mean them, then I pray you will hold onto them dearly, in the face of whatever negativity you are digesting, and encountering, because the lessons, the feelings you are resurrecting from the depths of your mind and heart are the most important things that could ever come out of this entire experience, and having these things to hold, whether with me, near me, remembering me, talking to me, or just reading a book or mixing or not thinking at all ...
I've said it before, I'll say it again,
I believe in you. I love you. And I hope you, in time, will continue to remember the good parts, and that you will also be aware that no apologies are necessary ... that all this had a purpose, as this present moment does.
I will be here for you if you need me, always. At the moment this is hard, but it will get easier, because one of the things I have learned is that I am stronger than I have ever known. That any number of things, as you observed, could have broken me long ago. And so in being strong, as this does hurt even if I appear cold, I am comforted by my faith in myself and in you and the universe. And I wish you the best in finding out what that strength is for you -- because you have it too. Everyone does.
Believe me, because just as you can find proof for the theories that cause you to sink, or want to give up, or to shut down under the pressure ... you can, with the same eyes, the right pair of eyes (Hunter s. Thompson said) find proof to support a theory of something better and beautiful and comforting ...
I have to go.
But for what it's worth i know exactly what you have meant in everything you've said, and I want you to know that it is not too late to experience this or learn these things so long as you remember them and act on them.
It's like the part on Waking Life when the four guys are walking down the street, and they are talking about theory vs. action.
It's like addiction, whether to chocolate, or advil, or a way of thinking as habit. There's this model my shrink gave me. I don't know if I told you about it, but it had the steps of how to overcome ... whatever ... I honestly think it applies to everything ... but there's this part, this line, this stage I sat in for what seems like forever. It was the contemplation stage. The next stage was action.
I was so afraid of failing that I couldn't act. I've always felt like that. It's because of how I grew up. Not an excuse, just an unhealthy way of existing. So anyway, after the action phase, and a couple other steps, the last step was relapse, otherwise known as failure in my eyes ... but my shrink said, if you get to that one, you're not done for ... you just start at the beginning again.
And that's what life is about anyway. Robert fulghum said that long ago, and I read it in one of his books before i left for Seattle ... order to disorder to order again ...
Regardless, acknowledging this cycle gives me the perspective I need to keep things in line so I can handle less than perfect times ...
But the steps ... btw, it's not 12 steps. It's some theory in psychology ... but anyway, if you get to the end, and you look at how much and little, depending on your perspective, it took to get from the theory part to the action part, you start to believe in yourself, and the process, and you decide that it is amazing, and worthwhile, but not necessarily something you want to do again just to start at the beginning.
Now i suddenly wonder if you will understand. I see a slight contradiction in what I'm saying, but I don't. I guess it is all true ... Contradictions don't always disprove truths, but nevertheless, I will say that with these contemplations and actions and relapses, whatever the case, there are so many choices in between.
I feel i have made a very large tangent, but on the other hand, I have said exactly what is necessary, because thinking of things in these terms is just one facet of the jewel the Sandman gave to Daniel, and i know, though, because I believe in you, that seeing this one side may be enough to show you them all.
Okay, i have to go now, but thank you very much for everything. I do appreciate it. I really do. You taught me some things early on. Remember that when you think you need someone to tell you the things you already know.
Have a good day, sweetheart,
Love,
Labels: Addiction, Camp, Career, Goals, Movies, Rilo Kiley, Seattle, Spirituality, Therapy, Work
Thursday, August 25, 2005
The Edge of Reason
I've been reading again. I'm not as mentally lazy and unamused as I was when I was hammered everyday. Go figure. I finished the second Bridget Jones. Then I read The Amityville Horror, which I do not recommend reading at home alone by candlelight. But otherwise, was entertained. Now I'm sorta reading the Bible. Just 'cause.
Yesterday the story of Noah's Arc deeply affected me. I do not have well defined religious beliefs. I don't exactly know where the bible fits in, if at all. But I haven't really picked one up in the last eight years or so. If nothing else, it is interesting.
Anyway, I could totally relate to the story because I think it expresses something universal. Something about this renewal thing I've been talking about so much. The way that it said god created people and the world and night and day; and it was beautiful and good and satisfying. And gave it to man. And then saw what it was becoming, and how it was turning into something he didn't like, that he never wanted. And almost decided to scrap the whole project, but instead decided to keep a little piece and start over.
I guess I could relate to that. Who hasn't felt that way in any situation? Whether in love or career or art? Especially with art. I thought about how so many artists and musicians hate their work, and at most, are never completely satisfied with their output verses their intention, or vision. You ever spent hours on a painting or a paper only to discard the finished product on the count of the crap you considered it to be? It can be painful.
Or ever live in a state of mediocrity that could be acceptable, in a situation that's not necessarily harming you, but that could be improved upon if you just had the guts to start over?
Not to say that the flood in the story necessarily did much for that, considering how hard it is to live in the world today, but then again, the story continues.
I'm exceedingly stressed out, but not. It's odd.
There's no telling everything that's on my mind, everything I have to do, all the money I have to come up with in a short period of time concerning various things.
But there's this calmness to it all. That I've got within me. That it'll work out. It's a confidence in myself that is rarely shaken.
Other than by my drinking. I was exceedingly depressed, and so I drank. But the drinking just made me more depressed. Once I saw the cycle I was going in, and noticed how quickly things were only getting worse, I had no other choice but to end it.
And it made me think about all my drinking habits over the years. This was definitely the worst, but I can't recall a time where I wasn't drinking regularly in the last five or six years. I wasn't always a drunk, but I did notice if I went a week without a drink. Just one.
Working in a bar doesn't help. I've got to get out of there. The funny thing is when all this was going on since I got back from camp I couldn't drink at work. So I was just wasted every other day of the week. Beyond belief. And I'd wake up feeling like shit and pour another one. Scotch or beer. Alone or with others. It didn't matter.
I drank because I felt useless, and then the drinking made me feel even more useless.
But I had my head together, even through it. I know I did because as soon as I stopped and started doing things for myself again, I felt better.
I'm pretty lonely right now. When my friends call me they mostly invite me to bars, and I can't do that right now.
I had sorta started seeing somebody new. But all we did was meet up at bars. I met him one night at Nikki's birthday party, and ever since then I started running into him everywhere. I was pretty stand-off-ish and showed little interest, but it was nice to be pursued. I did begin to think he was a nice, intelligent guy.
But that's not something I can think about right now. And since we mostly hung out in bars, I'm not sure where he'd fit in since I don't want to go to them now. Because we would both basically go out and run into dozens of people we knew and split up and talk to them and meet up at the end of the night to say it was nice to see each other.
He was calling and sending me messages quite a bit for awhile, but yeah, I don't know what's up with that.
Aaron and I speak occasionally, but I'm not sure that's a good idea. The first couple weeks I really wanted him back. Now I don't. Now when I talk to him I just get angry and frustrated. I'm surprising still pretty nice to him. I can't hate him. I wish I could.
But I felt so deceived, because I don't think he knows who he is or what he wants. And he doesn't. He'll even admit that. But he put up the appearance of someone who was not actually an emotional fuckwit.
So when he broke up with me without even being able to articulate a reason, I took it pretty hard. Because everything had been perfect until it just wasn't. It was a total shock. Even all my friends were shocked.
He still can't really explain it. Nor can he explain why he felt so depressed in the weeks after (Hmm, I don't know. I guess it had nothing to do with ending a great relationship for no real reason.). And I think he still is. We had a couple nice conversations and were going to meet to talk in person, but he shut down again. Last time I talked to him I confronted him about it. He apologized, saying he wasn't sure, just like he isn't sure about anything.
Yep. So I'm working on my emotional fuckwit meter. It's a work in progress.
This was prolly longer than necessary. Possibly a work of procrastination. I've got lots to do.
I've been reading again. I'm not as mentally lazy and unamused as I was when I was hammered everyday. Go figure. I finished the second Bridget Jones. Then I read The Amityville Horror, which I do not recommend reading at home alone by candlelight. But otherwise, was entertained. Now I'm sorta reading the Bible. Just 'cause.
Yesterday the story of Noah's Arc deeply affected me. I do not have well defined religious beliefs. I don't exactly know where the bible fits in, if at all. But I haven't really picked one up in the last eight years or so. If nothing else, it is interesting.
Anyway, I could totally relate to the story because I think it expresses something universal. Something about this renewal thing I've been talking about so much. The way that it said god created people and the world and night and day; and it was beautiful and good and satisfying. And gave it to man. And then saw what it was becoming, and how it was turning into something he didn't like, that he never wanted. And almost decided to scrap the whole project, but instead decided to keep a little piece and start over.
I guess I could relate to that. Who hasn't felt that way in any situation? Whether in love or career or art? Especially with art. I thought about how so many artists and musicians hate their work, and at most, are never completely satisfied with their output verses their intention, or vision. You ever spent hours on a painting or a paper only to discard the finished product on the count of the crap you considered it to be? It can be painful.
Or ever live in a state of mediocrity that could be acceptable, in a situation that's not necessarily harming you, but that could be improved upon if you just had the guts to start over?
Not to say that the flood in the story necessarily did much for that, considering how hard it is to live in the world today, but then again, the story continues.
I'm exceedingly stressed out, but not. It's odd.
There's no telling everything that's on my mind, everything I have to do, all the money I have to come up with in a short period of time concerning various things.
But there's this calmness to it all. That I've got within me. That it'll work out. It's a confidence in myself that is rarely shaken.
Other than by my drinking. I was exceedingly depressed, and so I drank. But the drinking just made me more depressed. Once I saw the cycle I was going in, and noticed how quickly things were only getting worse, I had no other choice but to end it.
And it made me think about all my drinking habits over the years. This was definitely the worst, but I can't recall a time where I wasn't drinking regularly in the last five or six years. I wasn't always a drunk, but I did notice if I went a week without a drink. Just one.
Working in a bar doesn't help. I've got to get out of there. The funny thing is when all this was going on since I got back from camp I couldn't drink at work. So I was just wasted every other day of the week. Beyond belief. And I'd wake up feeling like shit and pour another one. Scotch or beer. Alone or with others. It didn't matter.
I drank because I felt useless, and then the drinking made me feel even more useless.
But I had my head together, even through it. I know I did because as soon as I stopped and started doing things for myself again, I felt better.
I'm pretty lonely right now. When my friends call me they mostly invite me to bars, and I can't do that right now.
I had sorta started seeing somebody new. But all we did was meet up at bars. I met him one night at Nikki's birthday party, and ever since then I started running into him everywhere. I was pretty stand-off-ish and showed little interest, but it was nice to be pursued. I did begin to think he was a nice, intelligent guy.
But that's not something I can think about right now. And since we mostly hung out in bars, I'm not sure where he'd fit in since I don't want to go to them now. Because we would both basically go out and run into dozens of people we knew and split up and talk to them and meet up at the end of the night to say it was nice to see each other.
He was calling and sending me messages quite a bit for awhile, but yeah, I don't know what's up with that.
Aaron and I speak occasionally, but I'm not sure that's a good idea. The first couple weeks I really wanted him back. Now I don't. Now when I talk to him I just get angry and frustrated. I'm surprising still pretty nice to him. I can't hate him. I wish I could.
But I felt so deceived, because I don't think he knows who he is or what he wants. And he doesn't. He'll even admit that. But he put up the appearance of someone who was not actually an emotional fuckwit.
So when he broke up with me without even being able to articulate a reason, I took it pretty hard. Because everything had been perfect until it just wasn't. It was a total shock. Even all my friends were shocked.
He still can't really explain it. Nor can he explain why he felt so depressed in the weeks after (Hmm, I don't know. I guess it had nothing to do with ending a great relationship for no real reason.). And I think he still is. We had a couple nice conversations and were going to meet to talk in person, but he shut down again. Last time I talked to him I confronted him about it. He apologized, saying he wasn't sure, just like he isn't sure about anything.
Yep. So I'm working on my emotional fuckwit meter. It's a work in progress.
This was prolly longer than necessary. Possibly a work of procrastination. I've got lots to do.
Labels: Addiction, Books, Career, Depression, Drinking, Relationships
