"at the golddigger - sorry"
if timing is everything, then irony's her bitch.
when's k's text came in from the infamous vegas nightclub, i was soaking peacefully in a tub; and just as serenely drinking in a tale of a saleswoman diluting her parents' liquor stash, in a wee ditty the big book likes to call, "crossing the river of denial".
[yup. even i'm raising a brow over this one.]
a far cry from the equally cinematic image of last october. girl gone wild-eyed. where hovering hazily below a watery line gone frighteningly still was no cause for alarm. for her reason to surface, was always to swallow more pills.
so when i thought about that night at the "golddigger", i flinched.
in bridget jones speak, this "married", rocketed on narco-holic fumes, acting like a fully-charged "singleton". fueled by uniformed flirtations, rock-starry-eyed fantasies and unrequited experimentation, she flew higher and higher, crashing flat on the tarmac; drawn and gold quartered.
so what do you do when you wake up 6 months sober? alone?
you let your dog wag her bum so hard she scares herself.
you let your sober sorority swaddle you in praise, in pointers and in pain.
you let yourself get mauled by a thai woman.
and you think. i can do this. i want to do this. i want to be healthy and free.
but you miss that first cold, crisp sip on an achy, baking day. beads of sweat, you swallow dry. then wet and sharp. ah. then you're wine wine rafting on a river of chardonnay; buzzing, churning. hands free flight. until the river bed dries up and what lies beneath is mouthwash and rubbing alcohol.
and you miss that barbituate buzz. when ms. migraine crashes the party, there's no-one like fiorinol. the perfect friend. she shows ms. migraine to the door; holds vigil all night long. and the next day. and the next. helping find words your thick, drunk tongue can pass off; helping stuff your undergarments in anticipation of the night's release.
and you really miss your daddy. the twinkled-toed, rugbied md. he loved pele, stamps and the beatles. and what you know about daddy is that he wrote "alcoholism" in his address book under "a". and he rotted into a shuffling, robed zombie who ended up where i was 6 months ago. in the hospital. then.
38 and dead.
[oh, wait. you don't believe this is a disease.]
but, i do.
because 6 months ago, i took 121 pills in 2 and a half days.
i believe this is an insanity. a disease. alcoholism.
one last habit to break. my self-portraits.
coming out of my thai massage, the owner told me, "you look beautiful. you never change."
and i thought,
"oh, honey, you have no idea."