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Los Angeles, California
I am 47 and thriving in Southern California. One day at a time.
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Thursday, June 28, 2012

there's something about maggie (got dog?)

using dreams suck.

the night's pilling and swilling suspends my belief.

[where am i?]

i shift heavy at bed's end, sober with relief. but it lingers.

[you're ok. well, sort of. you're in glendale.]

the emotional hangover settles thick; sick, burdened, guilty as uncharged.

[and we're off to the races.]

my mind's a go, roaring, racing; making the world and everything in it, my bitch.


[welcome to my mind.]

so with henbrain still sloshing, i squint one-eyed, shamefaced, soon egg-faced, over to my fb page.

over to my link. my blog. my masterpiece.

not one click. not one like. not one stroke of the ol' bald ego.

i am plucked bare, patchy and raw. but i sting less from vitamin (ego-)d (boost) withdrawal and more from my ravenous, sand-crawling desperation for a cyber connection; any connection.

[i. just. feel. so. alone.]

and my barometer plummets to less-than-zealously in love with anyone. and suddenly, i hate the world.

[i fucking hate facebook.]

and i am seething, simmering with resentment; my skin smolders hot with disruption as i pack up my life for 2 nights. meds, [slam!], clothes, [slam!], toiletries, [slam!], computer, [slam!] aa literature, [slam!] food, [slam!] dbt (dialectical behavioral therapy) charts, homework [slam!]...

"SLAM! no big changes in your first year of sobriety! wag! wag! wag!"

and my hair is falling out again, silently, ominously, like nuclear ash.  i brush strands off my pillow, my shirts, corking cries of self-pity. the little red haired girl arches skyward, daddy's calves, cyclosporine belly protruding. tugging at her prednisone goblet she wonders why, why, can't she hang on to just a little bit of vanity?

[child, never ask questions that start with why...]

and there's that song. that stupid, stupid song. endlessly turntabling on sirius hits 1. it guts me and i'm down, no reflex; now a reflex. on my knees. sobbing, snorting in time; a pig for sacrifice, a lamb for god, a hen up for anything.

and then there's those texts. and emails. flawed in their hurried design, blueprints short circuiting upon receipt.

"are you ok?"

"how is sobriety!?"

"when can i call?"

"thinking of you!"

these gestures comfort the sender, sooth their guilty gulps. they chalk up their side of the scorecard with a mighty stroke, electronic brevity showcasing how impossibly busy they are!, how utterly inconvenient is our friendship; sending you only further, deeper into a cavernous avoid with the arm's length touch of a button.

but the worst is the silence. long and loud. the ones who circulate you on a prayer list; in a prayer group, and never, ever call. is it just me, but didn't jesus get down with the whores, the thieves, the alcoholics?

[maybe when i'm divorced, reject "the kid" and relapse, i'll get on a speed dial.]

"write drunk, edit sober"...

[the "heningway" morality usually pops up somewhere in the 7th inning stretch.]

so as i walked into my house and melted into a wickedwitchoftheeast puddle of tears, i heard her before i saw her.

those crazy "magaroni" nails...

those panicked squeals of delight...

and that wild and wily tail...

dogs know something we just don't. they know how to live. mindfully. they do everything in the moment. they are spiritual. and even if they've just had 10 teeth taken out, there is nothing greater on the face of the earth than the sight of you. others always come first.


[except when there's a bone around. or a nether region in need of detailing.]

and as i rolled around on the floor with my toothless dog, my hangover lifted.

hair is hair and that's what wigs are for. or pomade for a shiny scalp.

i love facebook because i can see my bedstefar sit in tivoli gardens at age 93.

and the reason my hackles are buzzing, so finely antennaed to the telephone game is because i played it better than anyone. and nobody wins, when nobody calls.

there's no-one to crucify.

it's just not about me.

thank god.

and some days, when you can't find your god, (sigh) you've got dog.

1 comment:

  1. All humans are flawed, but I'd say the main one is communication. Humans are so complex inside, but outside we only show a piece of it and sometimes that piece we show we hope people interrupt it as we have inside our head. Communication is best when it is to the point, but that is a harder said than done. You are always in my thoughts, but I never pick up the phone, because I fear that I'd be intruding on what you are doing. It's an assumption, and we all know how those go. I send emails because they are less intruding. You can read them on your own time, respond on your own time. It is flawed thought, right? This isn't justification, this is just insight into how my mind has worked and each day is another lesson.