i used to beat up little girls.
it was my first drug of choice.
how sexy is that?
yes, the little red haired girl would randomly prey on floral, frocked princesses; boldly, coldly pronouncing them targets for her simmering tidal rage.
"i'm going to fight you."
pummeling the stunned innocents with magnificent fury; unleashing the caged riot of parental anarchy burning her heart; her home to the ground.
unfortunately, generation z, bullying is not new to me.
this is my alcoholism.
[start me up.]
some progress rapidfirequick, and others, like a fine wino, progress into ocd, list-making obsession. then codeine addiction. and then obsess over the perfect fiorinol/chardonnay cocktail. and then they dissolve, delightfully into the sugar rush of the self-centered lollipop. obsessively, compulsively, fatally.
one lick, and you can't stop.
you are not weak.
you are not morally deficient.
you just can't slam on the brakes.
because you are smart.
you can whisper yourself out of a 51/50 at cedars-sinai. with breath so still you don't even know if you're alive. and you walk a quiet line between life and death, unmoving; uncaring. and the only sounds tethering you to terra firma are the ambien and xanax prescriptions rattling you away into discharge.
you are really smart.
you with your beady, greedy little eyes. with your scaly, skin-shedding ways. and that flickering fork of a tongue. with your poisonous prong, your cedars' social worker is obliterated, her cute, clueless attempts to sign off on your alcoholism, are backhanded; swatted away like a pesky insect. next. with relentless arrogance, you convince the chief psychiatrist to amend that ridiculous drug and alcohol abstinence agreement.
["honestly, henriette, we've just never had anyone challenge this". next.]
and you glide [un]happily back under your rock, swilling beer and crushing xanax into your cracked molars while photographing your morphing kankles in various stages of edema for your blog.
you are listed for a kidney.
you are dialysed.
but you really are fucking smart.
you can talk your way into an oxycodone prescription at the pain center. months after your donor abandoned his script of tylenol 3s into the ceramic ocean. you talk your way onto so many prescription pads, with your slick, pick up and "deliver me" system, escobar took notes from you.
"but it's for the "pain" in my scarsideeffectsheadheartyourfaultgodsfaulteveryoneelsesbutminefault..."
and you are insane.
wheeling, out of control.
donutting in the parking lot. manically laughing, tears pooling into your lap.
shifting over and over; gears stuck. fingers clenched so tight; so dry they would snap off, stick by stick were you able to unpeel this frozen fist.
but in a whiteout, you can't see a thing. and your heart is frozen.
"how did i get here?!" should be a game show.
and we could all win prizes.
kinda like a reality show version of orwell's room 101. if you survive, you get a parting gift.
once in a while, this unemployeddisabledseparatedalcoholic will be sitting in a meeting and suddenly, i've been tossed into a box of tarantulas. they are everywhere. hissing, nipping, crawling. i open my eyes to glittering dark beads, peering. odorous pus, oozing. limbs strapping, entrapping me. coarse, angry fur rubbing me raw; bloody.
if i beat them off with a stick, i'll only get bit.
so the only way out is to jesus myself; four on the floor.
[and that's when i shift it into 1st and surrender.]
and be still.
i had this epiphanous moment the other day.
a woman shared about her childhood. about the chaos she grew up in. how she never knew how to feel. how she was always putting on an act.
she actually did the fosse move.
and i thought back to my grade 3 project.
"what do you want to be when you grow up?"
and i wondered if i'd ever really wanted to be an actress. or if i had just scribbled down an answer to a question? a god in the image that an 8 year-old girl worshipped every friday night. actress-singer-dancer, marie osmond.
["i'm a little bit country..."]
because now that i'm eightandahalf months sober, the breath of relief i sigh when realizing i never have to act again, fills me with air so clean i vibrate. icy shock, defibrillation.
the little red haired girl played two roles for too long. overprotective daughter. ferociously battling, baring teeth; all, for her embattled father; unknown peer. resentful child. "where's mummy?". longing for a mother who was responsibly absent. architect by default, building brick by agonizing brick, a house built for 4, in the end, fit only for 3.
sure. i have minutes when i want to flip back my fortysomething, silverstreaked, thin-wisped strands, run my fingers through my topomax-induced breakage, adjust my $5, l.a. county fair D and G knockoff sunglasses, load up, put pedal to the metal and plow through my feelings and into a 7-11 or some other franchise. and anyone who tells me they've got this thing called alcoholism licked, never mind "life", is a total douche.
[ahem. THIS is not serenity.]
so after throwing another charge on the card, my train left separation station and slowed in its tracks, dread in my tread, as i neared this week's rental.
C 45, C 46, C 47...
[say it isn't so...]
what i know from cars is nothing. but what i know from the 80's is everything.
there she stood, nay, screamed from her slot. beckoning to me from the annals of 1981. coated in the neon electric blue that swathed the eyelid of every lead singer of every r&b video ever to rotate on mtv. the seats, like slipping into madonna's "lucky star" fishnet top: cheap black polyester, with charlie-red sheen and bright red stitching. when i check for po-po, there's some kind of dolphin fin sculpture/wind deflection device on the back and the multiple, totally tubular, headlights/tail lights light up reminiscent of the bling of my barbie's 'vette.
[i have yet to pinpoint a demographic for this car.]
where, oh, where is my beige corolla? the bland beauty i revved to delicately navigate the los angeles labyrinth. dodging bullet trains, planes and automobiles, i hunched, skimming under the radar; skimming only the foam of driving delights...
[hmmm...the dodge "avenger"...]
so maybe my sponsor was on to something when she snorted, "you're supposed to learn something from this...!"
and maybe you're rolling you're eyes at the aa speak...
but there's no denying god has a sense of humor.
and maybe i do too...