I Will Not Cry Today. I Will Not Cry Today.

As I opened my eyes this morning, looked to my left, right, up, down, I realized I was laying in a rather regal supine position, head, upright, hands clasped like Orson Wells or Winston Churchill. Holding ones' self in, as to make one appear smaller. As opposed to allowing ones arms to flail about, announcing that one's tricep muscles have been replaced by ziploc bags of skin and lard with peas in them. I clasped my $65 Target bedshread, I call it, as opposed to a bedspread. I shouldn't have to explain, but I will; my bedspread is frayed, shreaded and beginning to look worse than the kind, vacant eyed, Indian woman that wanders the streets of Albuquerque, reeking of urine and poverty. So, greeted this morning already by a bedshread, a ceiling fan that circles me in the counterclockwise position, which we all know is the correct direction for summertime, however, counterclockwise somehow unwinds me. In a bad way. There is a Feng Shui principle that if someone is negative, you circle them counterclockwise to banish their negative energy. I've been laying beneath the serial killer fan for several months now. Shouldn't I pop out of bed like a flaxen haired maiden singing about Hitler and death and the afterlife, running through the hills because they are alive with the sound of music. My hills are alive with the sound of depression, a child coughing, a rapid heartbeat and shortness of breath. And then there are my emotions, waiting to say "helllllllllo" in an annoying high pitched, Bangladesh accent.

Thinking about the upcoming mundane events of the day, which everyone else does, without a full blown, meltdown, I tell myself I will not cry today. I will not cry today. I will not cry today. As I repeat my meltdown mantra, I, of course, begin to cry.
I decide to rise, royally and take two steps and I am in my 28 square foot bathroom. Do I choose the Rembrandt which is almost gone or the Crest that is almost gone. I make a Rembrandt/Crest toothpaste cocktail. I will not cry today. I try to brush away my Ambien residue and underlying, unresolved issues. I search for a towel. Any towel. Bent shower curtain rod, formed to "add more space to your shower" Really? Yep, sure is cozy in here with the shower curtain bellowing, occassionally sticking to my saddlebag and scaring me because I think that my husband has snuck into our spacious 1/4 person shower to "be close to me". Nothing. Floor. Nothing. Hand towel holder. I almost laugh. Why would there be a towel there? Curling iron, yes. Floor. Again. I spot something that doesn't belong to me. Husbands' swim trunks/pajamas. I will not cry today. Dont I deserve a freaking towel? Even a dirty towel? Even a shred of toilet paper? A cardboard toilet paper HOLDER. I will not cry today.

I head to the kitchen to take a handful of pills. I must say it, I must say it. It's my morning Amy Winehouse cocktail. And they are all prescribed to ME. Now, I am twice Amy's size and I brush my hair biweekly, giving me a better start for the plethora of pharmaceuticals that will soon metabolize in my body, and make me function better. I will not cry today. I notice one bottle is low. Like really low. And I also notice the date it can be filled again is the 6th. Now, to me, I am stuck in December. So, what day is it? Banana. What date is it? I don't give a shit. Hopefully it's the 4th of something.
I will not cry today.

I turn on my cell phone and have numerous texts about appointments, drunk texts, messages for appointments, rambling messages about apppointments, reminders in the di gi tul auto may ted voy ss re min ding Br idget has an app oin t ment awe nn Jew lie twent ee se venth. So I am somehow closer to the 6th! "Breakfast baffle texts" with meaningless made up facts, texts to check facebook, I will not cry today. As I face the day I wonder, why don't I get a regular job?
And then I remember, the mundane, daily tasks, a boss, coworkers that may or may bring fish to lunch every day only to reheat in the shared microwave. The fact that termination is a familiar word, or one day I just quit showing up, because I am freaked out......I have never given a two week notice. Ever. Termination, nonchalant, over-qualified, expect too much, gregarious. It's all the same. They are just words, said by people who probably wake up every day with the same mantra. I will not cry today, and I wish the same, for you.

When Is It My Turn?

Do you have a nice home, a nice vehicle, vacations and the latest technology? Well, fuck you. I have been working my ass off the past 20 years to acquire these things. You know what I have? 3 kids, a husband, 3 puppies, a miniscule home in a neighborhood full of illegal immigrants. Our front yard is a 500 square foot disgrace and I have non-perishable items in my pantry that have perished.

Positive Thinking is for Retards

Does one know how lonely it is to "think positive thoughts" about a dying father? I'm not talking about the father that smokes a pack a day, or the one that has diabetes or the one that has an increased risk of electrocution because of his love of arboring. I'm talking about brain cancer. And just so anyone isn't confused..........and doesn't ask the imbecile question "well, is it a tumor or is it cancer?" Jesus Christ, you mother fuckers. That's like asking a stranger if they are pregnant, when clearly they are just 300 pound stress eaters clearing out the Ben & Jerry's "mini pints" to make it appear they don't eat 7 at a time.

So, please, think before you say something rancid and fucked up like "I hope your dad gets better". Because he won't, he has brain CANCER. This ain't no mamsy pamsy breast cancer or skin cancer scare. Not to discard anyone else's cancer issues. So, let us all take a deep breath and shoot ourselves.

January 2, 2010

"It is part of the cure to want to be cured."-Seneca

My promise of waking at 5:00 every morning didn't fare too well. I awoke at 8:30 to the sound of my 3 year old screaming for more juice in her bottle. Yes, we are both on the bottle. But I have my drinking under control, as you can see, I wasn't the one screaming for someone to refill my bottle at 8:30 in the morning. My promise of not drinking was also left unfulfilled. I mean, I can't quit cold turkey. One of the medications I take says something to the effect of "be under a doctor's supervision when eliminating alcohol from your diet." I take some of the directions very seriously. One of the other medications I take says "May cause drowsiness. Alcohol may intensify the effect. Use care when operating a car or dangerous machinery." This just sounds interesting, like a challenge. And we all know I like challenges. This is possibly why I have 3 children.

So, one must desire to be cured in order to be cured. I couldn't agree more. Sometimes I do want to be cured and other times I enjoy the fact that not everyone can drink as much as I can and still function. Today I will focus on wanting to be cured so that I can be cured! And my definition of cured is "feeling sedated. Always."

January 1, 2010

"Pain nourishes courage. You can't be brave if you've only had wonderful things happen to you."-Mary Tyler Moore

Today I shall be brave! I will be brave enough to attempt to lift my heavy head from my pillow that smells like a bar stool and assess the damage from last night's New Year's Eve wine and Xanax cocktail. From my bed, things don't look too bad, there is only one bottle of lube lying next to me and it is missing a lid. I am assuming I rang in the new year while my husband rang me out like a dinner bell on a cattle ranch. I will rise and greet the new day of the new year! I will embrace my children and apologize for any slurred bits of advice I may or may not have handed out the night before.

I am brave. I've had more than my share of wonderful things and I've put myself through more inconveniences than I deserved. Today is my day! I feel as though I can do anything. I can and will remove all bottles of wine and beer, quietly and before anyone else is awake, so they can not quantify my accomplishments from last night. Funny, I don't remember drinking beer. Maybe I do.

I will make the new year my bitch, and then make breakfast for everyone. Yes, this requires courage, determination and most of all, positive thinking and appropriate ingredients for pancakes and Hoppin John.

Preface to 365 Glorious Days

In a deep manic state, I envisioned a book. A book so powerful, so uplifting and with stories so short, you can ingest it all in the amount of time it takes to drop a deuce. The format is simple~I quote an uplifting passage from another author, and expand upon it. For the record, I am a 34 year old mother, alcoholic, manic depressive wife and salon owner with low self esteem and an eating disorder. Here's to a new year and a new perspective! Cheers!